'     • 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SONGS  AND  STORIES 


FROM 


TENNESSEE. 


BY 

JOHN  (TROTWOOD)  MOORE. 


CHICAGO. 

'JOHN  C.  BAUER,  PUBLISHER. 
1897. 


COPYRIGHT,  1897. 

JOHN  (TROTWOOD)  MOORE, 

COLUMBIA,  TENN. 


T 


PREFACE. 

HIS  is  a  very  large  world,  and  so  I  have  not  tried  to  cover, 
in  this  little  book,  any  very  great  portion  of  it;  but  have 
contented  myself  in  a  faithful  endeavor  to  describe,  truth 
fully,  life  as  it  has  been,  and  is,  in  the  Middle  Basin  of  Ten 
nessee — the  Blue  Grass  Plot  of  the  State. 

And  this  spot  is  rich  in  history  and  tradition — so  rich  that 
for  years  I  fretted  because  no  gifted  one  of  its  citizens  would 
arise  and  tell  to  the  world,  in  story  and  in  song,  the  earnest 
life,  the  sweet  simplicity,  the  matchless  beauty,  the  unpub 
lished  glory  of  its  land  and  its  folk.    And  when  none  arose, 
week  after  week,  without  a  thought  that  what  was  hastily 
^      written  for  an  obscure  department  of  a  country  paper,  The 
Columbia  Herald,  or,  later,  for  the  Pacing  Department  of  a 
<\l      turf  journal,  The  Horse  Review,  of  Chicago,  would  be  found 
o      worthy  of  compilation,  I  have  only  attempted  to  do  what  a 
greater  one  should  have  done. 

To  those  who  will  read  this  book,  the  author  begs  them  to 
fy  bear  in  mind  that  he  does  not  claim  for  these  'little  peoples 
®  of  his  brain  any  great  amount  of  genius  or  originality.  But 
Q  he  does  claim  that,  though  decked  in  homespun  and  home- 
O  liness,  they  are  the  faithful  little  children  of  their  own  bright 
jjj  land,  the  truthful  representatives  of  the  one  dear  spot,  fresh 
5  from  the  fields  and  the  forests,  the  paddocks  and  the  pens 
9  of  the  Middle  Basin. 

^  It  is  customary  with  some  authors  to  dedicate  their  books 

to  others.  To  my  father,  Judge  John  Moore,  and  my  moth 
er,  Emily  Adelia  Billingslea,  both  of  whom  yet  live  in  the 
old  home  at  Marion,  Alabama,  I  dedicate  this,  an  unfinished 
tribute  of  my  love  and  honor,  a  half  expressed  token  of  the 
gratitude  I  owe  them. 

JOHN  (TROTWOOD)  MOORE. 
Columbia,  Tenn.,  Sept.  i,  1897. 


443309 


SUCCESS. 

*~pIS  the  coward  who  quits  to  misfortune, 
1       Tis  the  knave  who  changes  each  day, 
Tis  the  fool  who  wins  half  the  battle, 
Then  throws  all  his  chances  away. 

There  is  little  in  life  but  labor, 

And  to-morrow  may  find  that  a  dream; 
Success  is  the  bride  of  Endeavor, 

And  luck  —  but  a  meteor's  gleam. 

The  time  to  succeed  is  when  others, 
Discouraged,  show  traces  of  tire. 

The  battle  is  fought  in  the  homestretch  — 
And  won  —  'twixt  the  flag  and  the  wire! 


THE  BASIN  OF  TENNESSEE. 

THE  Middle  Basin  is  the  dimple  of  the  Universe. 
About  equal  in  area  to  Lake  Ontario  —  nearly  6,000 
square  miles  —  situated  in  Middle  Tennessee  and  surrounded 
by  the  Highland  Rim,  it  is  one  of  those  peculiar 
geological  formations  made  long  ago  when  the  earth  was 
young.  In  altitude,  but  little  higher  than  the  first  plateau 
beyond  the  Mississippi;  in  shape,  oval  and  symmetrical  as 
the  tapering  turn  of  an  egg  shell  cut  lengthwise;  in  depth, 
from  500  to  1,000  feet  —  deep  enough  to  break  the  force  of 
the  wind,  and  yet  high  enough  to  concentrate,  as  by  a  focus, 
the  slanting  sunbeams  and  the  shadows. 

Away  back  in  the  past  it  was  once  the  bed  of  a  silver 
shining  lake.  But  whether  its  waves  boiled  beneath  a  torrid 
sun,  lashed  into  foam  by  saurian  battles,  or  whether  glacial 
icebergs  sunk  their  crystal  pillars  in  its  depths  and  lifted  their 


8  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

diamond-turreted  peaks  to  the  steel-cold  stars  of  an  unan- 
swering  heaven,  no  one  will  ever  know. 

And  what  became  of  it?  We  shall  never  know.  Per 
haps  an  earthquake  rent  its  natural  levees,  and  it  fled  with  the 
Cumberland  or  the  Tennessee  to  the  gulf.  Perhaps  the 
mighty  Mississippi  brushed  with  his  rough  waves  too  closely 
to  the  western  border  of  our  calm  lake  one  day,  and  she  went 
with  him,  a  willing  captive,  to  the  sea.  Or,  she  may  have 
passed  out  down  the  dark  channels  of  some  mammoth  cave 
whose  caverns  have  never  yet  heard  the  sound  of  human  voice 
— we  know  not.  All  we  know  is,  the  lake  was  here — the  lake 
is  gone.  Time  is  long. 

The  mound-builders  were  not  here  then,  for  they  have 
dotted  its  fertile  basin  with  a  thousand  voiceless  monuments 
of  a  voiceless  age.  Time  is  long.  The  lake  was  here — the 
lake  is  gone. 

But  when  it  went,  it  left  the  sweet  richness  of  its  fare 
well  kiss  upon  the  lips  of  our  valleys,  and  the  fullness  of  its 
parting  tears  on  the  cheeks  of  our  hills.  It  made  the  loam 
and  the  land,  the  spirit  and  the  springs,  the  creeks  and  the 
cream  of  the  Middle  Basin  of  Tennessee — the  Blue  Grass 
Plot  of  the  State. 

An  animal  is  the  product  of  the  environments  that  sur 
round  him — the  blossom  of  the  soil  upon  which  he  lives.  He 
is  part  of  the  sunlight  and  the  grass,  the  rock  and  the  water, 
the  grain  and  the  gravel,  the  air  which  he  breathes  and  the 
ant-hill  which  he  crushes  beneath  his  feet.  Man  is  the  high 
est  animal.  Then  behold  the  man  of  the  Middle  Basin,  the 
highest  development  of  the  animal  creation:  Jackson. 
Crockett,  Houston,  Bell,  Polk,  Gentry,  Maury,  Forrest — 
these  and  thousands  of  others  whose  names  and  fame  are 
fadeless. 

The  life  of  man  is  what  he  makes  it;  and  of  a  state 
what  man  makes  it.  And  so,  in  the  course  of  time,  the  two 
become  as  one^the  men  become  the  state  while  the  state  is 
ever  but  its  men.  Character  is  what  we  are;  reputation  is 


FROM     TENNESSEE.  9 

what  we  are  supposed  to  be.  A  history  of  the  Middle  Basin, 
then,  is  but  a  record  of  the  character  of  the  people  who  have 
lived  and  died  there.  If  she  did  great  things  in  the  past,  it 
was  because  she  had  great  characters  in  the  past.  The  wis 
dom  of  those  ancient  Greeks  who  taught  their  children  that 
they  were  descended  from  the  gods  is  to  be  admired;  had 
they  not,  I  doubt  if  the  Greeks  had  acted  like  the  gods,  as 
they  did  when  they  met  the  Persians  at  Thermopylae  and 
Salamis,  and  even  that  far  back,  made  the  story  of  the  Mid 
dle  Basin  a  possibility. 

Our  ideals,  at  last,  are  the  true  gauges  of  our  characters, 
and  the  higher  we  rear  these  castles  in  the  air,  the  loftier 
will  our  own  soul-dwellings  be.  Let  us  build  our  characters 
as  we  would  our  castles,  alike  beyond  the  reach  of  those  who 
climb  and  those  who  throw.  For  the  ideal  and  the  real  go 
together.  The  dream  must  precede  the  chisel,  the  vision 
be  father  to  the  brush,  the  thought  to  the  pen. 

Briefly  stated,  our  forefathers  of  the  Middle  Basin  came 
from  North  Carolina  and  Virginia,  and  when  they  came  over 
the  mountain  they  brought  its  granite  with  them. 

Mountains  and  hills  have  always  produced  genius  and 
liberty.  There  is  a  divine  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  rarefied 
air  of  the  hill-tops,  that  is  incompatible  with  ease,  with  slav 
ery  and  with  sloth.  It  seems  to  permeate  the  souls  of  those 
who  breathe  it,  to  lift  them  above  the  sordidness  of  that 
wealth  which  accumulates  in  the  valleys  but  for  decay. 

Andrew  Jackson  was  their  type  and,  like  hire,  their  deeds 
will  live  forever. 

Down  the  long  aisle  of  the  centuries  to  thfc  organ  notes  of 

fame 

Stalks  a  silent  figure  hallowed  in  the  light  of  glory's  name; 
Stalks  a  grand,  majestic  manhood  to  those  eon  fields  to  be, 
A  spiritual  pyramid  in  the  land  of  memory. 

And  if  we  cannot  prove  that  we  are  descended  from  the 


I0  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

gods,  we  can  at  least  demonstrate  that  we  are  the  children 
of  god-like  men  and  women — and  that  is  better. 

Years  have  passed  and  yet  the  Middle  Basin  is  as  rich 
and  beautiful  to-day  in  the  green  dressing  of  autumn's  after 
g-asses,  as  she  was  on  that  memorable  day,  years  ago,  when 
Hood's  army,  on  its  march  to  Nashville,  c-ttne  thundering 
with  thirty-five  thousand  men  over  Sand  Mountain  from  the 
bloody  fields  around  Atlanta.  The  Tennessee  troops,  as  a 
guard  of  honor,  led  the  advance.  For  days  they  marched 
among  the  "old  red  hills  of  Georgia,"  the  pines  of  North  Ala 
bama  and  the  black-jacks  of  the  Highland  Rim.  But  sud 
denly,  as  they  wheeled  in  on  the  plateau  beyond  Mt.  Pleasant. 
a  beautiful  picture  burst  on  their  view.  Below  them,  like  a 
vision,  lay  the  border  land  of  the  Middle  Basin — a  sea  of 
green  and  golden;  green,  for  the  trough  of  the  land  waves, 
somber  in  the  setting  sun,  had  taken  on  the  emerald  hues 
of  the  pasture  grasses;  golden,  for  the  swelling  hills,  where 
rolled  the  woodlands,  were  studded  with  the  bright  gold 
foliage  of  autumn  leaves,  nipped  by  the  early  frosts.  Farm 
house  and  fences,  orchards  and  open  field,  meadow  and  mean 
dering  streams,  newly  plowed  wheat  fields  and  rustling  rows 
of  trembling  corn,  all  basking  in  the  quiet  glory  of  mellow 
sunlight,  formed  a  picture  so  restful  to  the  eye  of  the  tired 
soldier  and  so  sweet  and  soothing  to  the  homesick  heart, 
that  involuntarily  his  old  slouched  hat  came  off,  his  musket 
shifted  to  "present  arms,"  and  a  genuine  rebel  yell  rolled  from 
regiment  to  regiment,  from  brigade  to  brigade,  as  this  splen 
did  master-piece  of  nature  unfolded  before  them. 

"Have  we  struck  the  enemy's  picket  already?"  asked  the 
thoughtful  Hood,  now  thoroughly  aroused  and  his  keen  eyes 
taking  on  the  flash  of  battle. 

"No,  General,  but  we've  struck  God's  country,"  shouted 
a  ragged  soldier  present,  as  he  saluted  and  joined  in  swelling 
the  volume  of  the  reverberating  yell. 

Even  the  gallant  Cleburne,  Honor's  own  soldier,  the 
man  whose  matchless  brigade  a  year  before,  at  the  retreat 


FROM    TENNESSEE  ZI 

from  Chickamauga,  had  stopped  Grant's  whole  army  at  Ring- 
gold  Gap,  tipped  a  soldier's  salute  to  the  quiet  church-yard  at 
Ashwood,  and  expressed  the  wish  if  he  fell  in  the  coming 
battle,  he  might  sleep  his  last  sleep  there.  Prophetic  wish! 
With  thirteen  other  field  officers  he  fell,  a  few  days  afterward, 
around  the  bloody  breastworks  of  Franklin,  and  yielded  up 
his  life  "as  a  holocaust  to  his  country's  cause." 

But  even  War — the  cloven-footed  curse  that  he  is — could 
not  blanche  her  cheek  save  for  a  moment,  and  as  soon  as 
the  last  echo  of  his  tread  had  died  away,  she  aroused  again  to 
life,  with  a  wreath  of  emerald  on  her  brow,  the  blush  of  the 
clover  blossoms  on  her  cheek,  the  sparkle  of  her  own  bright 
springs  in  her  eye,  and  the  song  of  the  reaper  in  her  ear. 

Upon   the    knolls    where  cannon   hurled 

Their  deadly  grape  between, 
The  stately  locusts  have  unfurled 

Their  flag  of  white  and  green. 
And  o'er  the  ridge  upon  the  crest 

Where  gleamed  the  flashing  blade, 
The  serried  rows  of  corn,  abreast 

Stand  out  on  dress  parade. 

Adown  the  slope  where  once  did  reel 

The  stubborn  ranks  of  gray, 
Now  speeds  the  flying  reaper's  wheel — 

Now  charge  the  ranks  of  bay. 
And  down  the  vale  where  marched  the  blue 

With  band  and  banner  fine, 
The  frisky  lambs  in  ranks  of  two 

Deploy  their  skirmish  line. 

And  so  is  she  rich  in  climate  and  in  soil;  but  richer  far 
in  the  memory  of  heroic  men — in  lives  that  shall  live  and 
a  beauty  that  shall  never  die: 


I2  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

O,  the  glorious  Middle  Basin, 

The  rose  in  Nature's  wreath! 
With  her  purpling  sky  and  her  hills  on  high 

And  her  blue  grass  underneath. 
Tis  here  our  fathers  built  their  homes, 
'Tis  here  their  sons  are  free — 
For  the  fairest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 

O,  the  fertile  Middle  Basin! 

Proud  Egypt's  threshing  floor 
Held  not  in  the  chain  of  her  golden  grain 

Such  fields  as  lie  at  our  door. 
Our  daughters  grow  like  olive  plants 
Our  sons  like  the  young  oak  tree — 
For  the  richest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 

O,  the  joyous  Middle  Basin, 

Land  of  the  mocking-bird! 
Where  the  flying  feet  of  our  horses  fleet 

In  front  of  the  race  are  heard. 
They  get  their  gameness  from  our  soil. 
Their  spirit  will  ever  be — 
For  the  merriest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 

O,  the  loyal  Middle  Basin! 

So  quick  for  fife  and  drum! 
She  stood  in  the  breach  on  the  crescent  beach 

When  the  hated  foe  had  come. 
Her  Jackson  made  our  Nation  safe, 

Her  Polk  an  Empire  free — 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 

For  the  truest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 

O,  the  glorious  Middle  Basin! 

Can  we  be  false  to  thee? 
Sweet  land  where  the  earth  and  the  sky  give  birth 

To  the  spirit  of  Liberty! 
Not  while  our  maids  have  virtue, 
Not  while  our  sons  are  free  — 
For  the  fairest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 


!3 


THE  SUMMER  OF  LONG  AGO. 

DO  you  know  the  land,  the  fairest  land 
In  the  mythical  realms  of  old? 
Where  the  earth  and  the  air,  and  the  flowers  rare 

All  sleep  'neath  a  sun  of  gold? 
Where  the  elf-king's  bugle  in  winding  note 

Drowns  the  dreamy  drum  in  the  black  bee's  throat, 
And  the  fairy  queen  floats  in  her  peach-bloom  boat? 
The  fire-flies  dance  where  the  lily-maids  meet 
And  the  flowers  are  dreams  that  lie  at  your  feet 
In  the  Summer  of  Long  Ago. 

Do  you  know  the  land,  the  sweetest  land, 

In  the  rhythmical  realms  of  old? 
Where  the  moon  and  her  beams  bring  the  romancing  gleams 

Of  a  love  you  never  have  told? 
Where  the  star  king's  horsemen  in  platoons  of  light 

Bring  your  soul-secret  love  on  a  palfry  of  white, 
And  her  lips  meet  your  lips  ere  she  taketh  her  flight? 


I4  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

The  will-o'-wisp  drops  like  a  star  from  the  sun, 
And  the  brooklets  are  poems  that  rhyme  as  they  run 
In  the  Summer  of  Long  Ago. 

Have  you  seen  the  queen  of  that  beautiful  land 

In  the  radiant  realms  of  old? 
With  eyes  like  the  stars  of  the  May-pop  bars, 

And  throat  like  the  lily's  fold? 
Queen  of  your  home  in  that  yet-to-be  day, 

To  hold  you  in  bondage  forever  and  aye, 
Yet  to  love  and  to  cherish,  to  bless  and  obey  — 

And  queen  even  now  in  a  kingdom  above  — 

The  little  sweetheart  you  first  learned  to  love 
In  the  Summer  of  Long  Ago. 


OLE  MISTIS. 

A  BRIGHT,  sunny  morning,  about  fifty  years  ago,  in  a  val- 
1\  ley  of  the  Middle  Basin  of  Tennessee.  A  handsome 
brick  residence,  with  sturdy  pillars  and  flanking  galleries,  on 
a  grassy  knoll  that  slopes  up  from  a  winding  pike.  Barns, 
whitewashed  and  clean  as  a  sanded  kitchen  floor;  fences,  shin 
ing  in  long  lines  in  the  hazy,  spring  sunlight;  orchards,  in 
bloom  and  leaf;  wheatfields,  stretching  away  in  billowy 
freshness,  turning  now  to  amber,  now  to  emerald,  as  the  west 
wind  laughed  across  them.  Further  on,  a  meadow,  dotted 
with  sheep  and  cattle,  while  nearer  the  house,  and  to  the 
right,  a  narrower  meadow  of  bluegrass,  through  which  mer 
rily  leaped  a  sparkling  branch  whose  source  was  in  a  large 
stone  dairy  near  the  house.  This  meadow  had  been  divided 
into  paddock  after  paddock,  each  containing  a  handsome 
mare  or  two,  with  foal  at  her  side. 

This  is  the  home  of  Col.  James  Dinwiddie,  the  courtliest 
gentleman,  best  farmer,  kindest  friend,  most  relentless  enemy, 


FROM     TENNESSEE.  15 

most  charitable  neighbor,  nerviest  gambler,  and  owner  of 
some  of  the  best  race  horses  in  Tennessee. 

"Horse  racing,"  he  has  said  a  hundred  times,"is  the  sport 
of  the  gods.  A  man  must  breed  horses  twenty  or  thirty  years 
and  have  his  ancestors  do  the  same,  too,  before  he  can  be 
come  an  all  around  gentleman.  The  proper  study  of  mankind, 
sir — with  due  respect  to  Alexander  Pope — is  horsekind. 
Gambling  on  horse  races  is  wrong — of  course  it  is,  sir.  It's 
wrong  just  like  it's  wrong  to  gamble  on  the  price  of  wheat 
or  corn,  or  city  lots,  or  to  raffle  off  cakes  and  quilts  at  church 
festivals,  or  to  run  up  a  bill  at  your  grocer's  when  the  chances 
are  ten  to  one  you'll  never  pay  it — wrong,  all  wrong,  sir.  But 
how  are  you  going  to  stop  it?  I,  for  one,  shall  not  try.  The 
Dinwiddies  can  show  ten  generations  of  gentlemen,  sir,  and 
not  a  single  hypocrite" — and  he  would  invite  you  out  to  a 
paddock  to  see  a  stallion  he  had  lately  imported  from  Eng 
land.  "The  winner  of  the  Derby,  sir,"  he  would  add  as  he 
looked  him  critically  over;  "the  winner  of  the  Derby,  while 
kings  and  princesses  looked  on  in  admiration  and  delight." 

The  day  wears  dreamily  on,  being  one  of  those  spring 
days  when  wanton  May,  coquetting  both  with  April  and 
June,  varies  her  moods  to  suit  each  ardent  wooer.  Every 
thing  is  busy  growing — too  busy  to  attend  to  anything  but  its 
own  affairs.  Even  Brutus,  the  Colonel's  negro  jockey,  was 
rubbing  with  more  than  usual  attention  a  magnificent  blood- 
like  gray  mare  half  covered  with  a  costly  all-wool  blanket,  on 
which  the  Dinwiddie  monogram  was  stitched  in  red  silk.  In 
the  clean,  newly-swept  hallway  she  stood,  impatiently  enough, 
with  the  cooling  bridle  on,  her  keen  ears  now  flashing  for 
ward,  as  some  object  attracted  her  attention  in  front,  now  laid 
back  threateningly  on  her  neck  as  the  vigorous  jockey  rubbed 
too  ardently  her  steaming  sides — for  he  had  just  given  her 
her  morning  work  out — and  champing  incessantly  the  bright 
round  snaffle-bit  in  the  loosely-fitting  head  stall.  An  imp  of 
a  darkey,  twelve  or  fifteen  years  old,  small,  wiry,  with  quick, 
sharp  eyes,  sits  just  out  of  reach  of  the  mare's  heels  on  an 


16 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


upturned  peck  measure,  and  watches  like  a  cat  every  move 
ment  of  the  deft  rubber. 

Jake,  as  his  name  went,  was  a  privileged  character.  "The 
mascot  of  the  barn,"  as  the  Colonel  called  him,  "and  we  can't 
get  along  without  him — him  and  the  rat  terrier.  Just  watch 
them,  Brutus,"  he  had  said  only  yesterday  to  the  new  jockey 
he  had  lately  imported  from  New  Orleans  to  ride  his  horses 
and  superintend  his  stable,  "and  don't  let  them  go  to  sleep  in 
the  stall  with  old  Mistis  or  get  too  near  the  mare's  heels. 
With  any  of  the  other  horses  it  makes  little  difference.  My 
luck  would  desert  me  if  either  of  them  got  hurt."  To-day 
Jake  was  taking  his  first  opportunity  to  tell  the  new  jockey  all 
he  knew. 

"You  gotter  be  mighty  keerful  dar,  wid  ole  Mistis,"  he 
said,  as  the  mare  raised  a  hind  foot  threateningly  from  a  too 
careless  stroke  of  the  rubber,  "mighty  keerful.  She's  er  on- 
common  kuis  mair  an'  wuf  all  de  res'  ob  cle  string.  Didn't  ole 
Marster  tell  you  you  mustn't  nurver  try  to  rub  her  off  'twell 
you's  fust  cleaned  off  her  face — de  berry  op'site  from  eny 
yuther  hoss?  He  ain't?  Wai,  it's  a  good  thing  I  tole  you,  or 
you'd  er  bin  kicked  ober  de  barn!  An'  didn't  he  tell  you 
erbout  de  waterin'  ob  her,  dat  she  didn't  drink  spring  warter 
like  de  yuthers,  but  you  had  to  warter  her  outen  de  cistern 
whar  de  white  folks  drinks?  He  ain't?  Wai.  you  jes'  try 
her  now.  She'll  die  ob  thirstivashun  afore  she'll  drink  a  drap 
unless  it  cums  outen  de  cistern.  I'm  de  onliest  one  dat  un- 
derstan's  dis  mair,  an'  dat's  er  fac,"  said  the  imp,  as  he  arose 
from  his  improvised  seat  and  ran  a  hand  down  into  a  jean 
pocket  where  he  had  stored  away  a  bright  carrot.  Slipping 
carelessly  under  the  mare's  flank,  before  the  jockey  could  stop 
him,  he  bobbed  up  suddenly  under  her  nose  and  presented  to 
her  the  rich  vegetable,  exclaiming:  "Heah,  you  gray  ghost, 
faster'n  greased  lightning  down  er  skinned  sycermore,  an' 
meaner'n  de  debil  to  his  muddern-law — take  dis!"  and  the  bit 
stopped  rattling  in  her  nervous  jaws  as  she  proceeded  to  de 
vour  the  carrot,  after  which  she  whinnied  and  then  rubbed 


FROM     TENNESSEE  17 

her  nose  affectionately  on  a  closely  cropped,  woolly  head,  with 
every  sign  of  satisfaction.  "Take  me  outer  dis  heah  barn," 
remarked  the  little  darkey  pompously,  as  he  strolled  back  to 
his  seat,  catching  the  mare  playfully  by  the  tail  as  he  passed, 
"an'  dis  mair  would  kill  sum  nigger  befo'  night.  I'm  de  onli- 
est  one  dat  understan's  her,  an'  ole  Marster  '11  tell  you  so. 
Didn't  he  nurver  tell  you  how  I  made  ole  Mistis  win  de  ten 
t'ousan'  dollars  at  de  big  race  las'  spring?  He  ain't?  Wai, 
he  mayn't  tole  it  to  you,  but  I've  heurd  'im  tell  it  to  de  guv'- 
ners,  majahs  an'  j  edges  dat  visits  him,  when  dey  sets  out  in 
de  frunt  peazzer  an'  smokes  at  night,  an'  dey  nearly  die  laffin'. 
'Sides  dat,  its  bin  rit  in  de  papers,  mun! 

"You  see  we  got  holt  of  er  fool  heah  las'  year  dat  thout 
de  way  ter  train  hosses  wus  ter  beat  'em.  We  didn't  kno'  he 
wus  dat  way  at  de  time  or  we  wouldn't  er  hi'ed  'im.  We 
b'leeves  in  kindness  heah;  we  don't  beat  nobody  'cept  dey 
b'leeged  ter  have  it — noboddy  but  my  mammy,  Aunt  Fereby, 
de  cook.  She  beats  me  nigh  ter  death  sum  times,  'kase  I'm 
her  onliest  chile  an'  she's  tryin'  ter  raise  me  right,  an'  Mar 
ster  says  he  'lows  it  'kase  she's  de  onliest  one  on  de  place  dat 
kno's  dey've  got  de  genuwine  religun.  Wai,  dis  fellow  we 
got,  tried  ter  train  ole  Mistis  dar,  an'  lacter  ruined  her.  She 
won't  take  no  beatin,.  No,  siree;  why,  man,  dat  mair's  by 
Sir  Archie,  fus'  dam  by  Bosting,  secun'  dam  by  Diermeed, 
third  dam  by  Flyin'  Childen,  fourth  dam  by  'Merican  'Clipse, 
an'  so  on  fur  twenty  mo' — I've  heard  ole  Marster  tell  it  er 
hunded  times.  Wai,  de  end  ob  it  wus  we  jes'  had  de  oberseer 
gib  dat  nigger  a  cow-hidin'  and  saunt  him  erway;  an'  we 
turned  ole  Mistis  out  on  de  frunt  lawn  to  try  an'  furgit  it. 
An'  dat's  whar  I  fell  in  lub  wid  her.  I  ain't  got  nuffin'  ter  do 
but  to  tote  de  kitchin  wood  in  fer  mammy,  an'  I  uster  go  out 
dar  an'  feed  ole  Mistis  apples  an'  sech  lak,  an'  one  day  Mar 
ster  tried  'er  again  on  de  track,  wid  me  dar  to  be  wid  'er,  an' 
she  run  lak  a  skeered  deer  wid  de  houns  at  her  heels.  Ole 
Marster  laf  an'  say,  'By  de  eternal!  but  dat  boy  am  a  reg'laf 
'muscat — he  bring  me  good  luck!'  and  he  twell  'em  to  take 


18  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

me  to  de  big  race  wid  'em  at  Nashville  de  nex'  month.  Jim- 
iny!  But  didn't  we  hab  a  good  time  on  de  road?  We  hitched 
up  de  fo'  mule  team  an'  put  all  our  things  in  an'  went  long  in 
style.  Ole  Marster  went  long  in  de  kerridge  wid  Mis'  Anne — 
dat's  de  young  mistis — an'  Cap'n  Sidney — dat's  her  bow — I 
hates  dat  white  man,  he's  so  mean — an'  we  eben  carry  de  hor- 
row  an'  de  big  pair  Devum  steers  to  pull  it.  'What  you 
gwine  carry  dis  horrow  fur  an'  dis  ox  team,  Kunnel?'  said  de 
Sidney  man  when  we  started.  'Bekase,  sah,'  said  ole  Marster, 
'my  hosses  can't  run  ober  pavements,  an'  dat's  whut  dey  had 
to  do  de  las  'time  I  wus  dar.  Dat  crowd  up  dar  too  stingy  to 
keep  de  tracks  horrowed,  sah,'  an'  we  all  went  on.  Wai,  sah, 
I  slep'  in  de  stall  wid  ole  Mistis  ebry  night  an'  she  nurver 
tromped  on  me  nary  time.  De  mornin'  ob  de  race  dar  wus 
de  bigges'  crowd  I  eber  seen.  'Twas  down  in  de  ole  clobel 
bottom,  whar  dey  say  Gineral  Jackson  useter  race;  an'  bright 
an'  early  ole  Marster  rid  out  to  de  stable  on  de  track  an'  tell 
de  head  jockey  to  hook  up  de  par  of  Devum  steers  to  de  hor 
row  an'  make  me  horrow  de  track  for  ole  Mistis — an'  den  he 
rid  off  sum'ers.  Dey  put  me  on  de  of?  steer  an'  gin  me  a  big 
stick,  an'  I  went  'round  an'  'round  dat  track  twell  I  got 
mighty  tired.  An'  dey  guyed  me  an  'hollered  at  me  up  at  de 
gran'  stan'.  An'  one  man  laffed  an  'hollered  to  sum  mo'  dar 
in  er  little  stan'  by  deyself  an'  said,  'Time  'em,  gineral,  ef  dey 
ain't  goin'  too  fas'  fur  yore  watch,'  an'  den  dey  all  look  at  me 
an'  de  two  steers  an'  laf.  'But,'  thinks  I  to  myself,  'ebry  man 
gotter  start  at  de  bottom  ef  he  'specks  to  rise,  an',  dough 
I'm  gwine  'round  on  a  steer  now,  dey  am  good  ones,  an'  dese 
folks  will  yet  lib  to  see  me  go  'round  on  dis  track  on  de  bes' 
piece  ob  hoss  flesh  dat  eber  stood  on  iron.'  I  kin  stan'  white 
folks  laffin  at  me,  but  de  nex'  time  I  cum  'round  dar  wus 
some  little  niggers  laffin'  an'  throwin'  clods,  an'  it  made  my 
blood  bile.  Torectly  one  on  'em  got  up  clos'  to  me  an'  I 
hauled  off  an'  fotch  'im  a  whack  on  de  head  wid  my  stick, 
but  de  nex'  one  I  hit  I  missed,  an'  hit  de  ox  on  de  tip  ob 
his  big  horn  an'  knocked  de  shell  off  clear  clown  to  his  head. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  19 

Wai,  when  ole  Marster  cum  he  was  sho'  mad,  'kase  he  thout  a 
heap  ob  de  steers,  an'  it  sp'iled  de  match  to  have  one  on  'em 
wid  de  horn  off,  an'  he  ax'  de  jockey,  'who  dun  it?'  An'  de 
jockey  said,  'Ax  Jake.'  An'  he  ax  me  whut  I  do  hit  fur,  an' 
he  wouldn't  b'leeve  me  when  I  told  him  'bout  de  little  nig 
gers,  an'  he  took  his  ridin'  whip  an'  started  to  lambas'  me. 
But  it  was  den  prutty  nigh  time  to  race  an'  he  changed  his 
mind  an'  said:  'No;  I  won't  whip  you";  you  won't  mind  dat; 
but  I'll  hurt  you  wusser — I'll  lock  you  up  in  de  stable  an' 
you  shan't  see  ole  Mistis  run  her  race.' 

"Wai,  sah,  dat  lacter  kill  me.  I  beg  'im  to  gib  me  a  good 
'un  but  let  me  see  the  race!  I  cried  an'  I  hollered,  but  ole 
Marster  had  'em  shut  me  up  an'  lock  me  in  an'  dar  I  wus. 
Wai,  de  crowd  guthered  an'  de  ban'  played  an'  de  bosses 
cum  out,  an'  I  looked  through  de  crack  an'  seed  ole  Mistis 
wid  our  colors  up  an'  eb'rybody  hoorayin',  an'  I  jes'  couldn't 
stan'  it!  I  knowed  ole  Marster  wus  busy  an'  he'd  forgot  all 
erbout  me  an'  I  jes'  dug  out  dat  stable  like  a  rat,  an'  slipped 
up  to  de  three-quarter  pole  whar  de  bosses  cum  doun  fur  de 
wurd.  Wai,  sah,  you  orter  seed  dat  race;  hit  wus  a  corker  ef 
dey  eber  wus  one.  I  furgot  I  wus  erlive — I  seemed  to  be  in 
ernuther  wurld — I  didn't  think  of  the  Devum  steers  no  mo' 
— 'twus  glory  hallieluyar,  cinnerman  bark  an'  pep'mint  candy, 
two  circuses  an'  er  watermelon  patch,  moonshine  and  heab- 
enly  angels,  an'  I  turned  er  summerset,  I  felt  so  good,  an'  hol 
lered  to  de  common  niggers  erround  me  es  loud  es  I  could: 
'Look  at  ole  Mistis!  Look  at  ole  Mistis!  Jes'  lookit  my 
mair!'  An'  jes'  'bout  den  dey  cum  'round  doun  our  way  an' 
ernudder  boss  shot  by  ole  Mistis  an'  de  niggers  all  laf  an' 
holler,  'Whar  am  ole  Mistis  now?'  an'  hit  made  me  so  mad  I 
jumped  up  on  de  fense  an'  jes'  es  de  mair  cum  by  I  hollered 
at  'er  wid  all  my  might;  'Look  out,  ole  Mistis!  Look  out, 
ole  Mistis!  Look  out!  Fur  Gord  sake  run!'  An'  fo'  good 
ness  she  heurd  me  for  she  jes'  collared  dat  boss  an'  went 
by  'im  lak  he  wus  hitched  to  de  gyardin  palins.  An'  when  I 
seed  she  bed  beat  'im  I  jes'  turned  summersets  all  ober  de 


20  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

groun'  an'  walk  on  my  ban's  an'  h'ist  my  feet  under  dem  com 
mon  niggers'  noses.  An'  ebery  time  I  turn  er  summerset  an' 
kick  my  feet  I  sing: 

Possum  up  de  gum  stump, 

Fat  hog  in  de  waller — 
Ole  Mistis  gin  herself  a  hump 

An'  beat  'em  all  to  holler! 

O  my  ole  Mistis!     My  ole  Mistis! 

Whar  you  gwine?     Whar  you  gwine? 
O  my  ole  Mistis!    My  ole  Mistis! 

You  kno'  you  ain't  ha'f  tryin' ! 

"An'  den  I  riz  an'  turned  ernudder  summerset  an'  cracked 
my  heels  in  de  air,  an'  gin  'em  ernudder  one  'kase  I  wus  so 
happy : 

Jay-bird  took  de  hoopin'  coff' 

Kildee  took  de  measle, 
Ole  Mistis  took  de  money  off — 
Pop  goes  de  weasel! 

O  my  ole  Mistis!     My  ole  Mistis! 

Whar  you  gwine?     Whar  you  gwine? 
O  my  ole  Mistis!    My  ole  Mistis! 

You  kno'  you  ain't  ha'f  tryin'! 

"But  when  I  riz  de  next  time  I  liked  ter  drap  in  my 
tracks!  Dar  stood  ole  Marster  an  'er  whole  crowd  er  gem- 
mens  lookin'  at  me  an'  laffin',  an'  when  he  seed  I  seed  'im  he 
cum  up  tendin'  like  he  was  mighty  mad,  an'  sez:  'You  imp 
of  a  nigger?  Whut  you  cum  outen  dat  stall  fur?  I'm  er  good 
min'  ter  flay  you  erlive?'  An'  I  drapped  on  de  grass  at  his 
feet  an'  sed:  'Ole  Marster,  kill  me — beat  me  to  def!  I  kno' 
I  desarves  it,  but  I've  seed  de  bes'  hoss  race  in  de  wurl,  an' 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  2i 

ole  Mistis  has  won  it.  Thang  God!  I'm  reddy  to  go!'  An' 
whut  you  reckon'  he  dun,  nigger?  Ole  Marster!  Right  dar 
in  dat  crowd!  He  jes'  pull  out  er  ten  dollar  gold  piece,  an' 
laf  an'  sed:  'Heah,  you  little  rascal!  Ef  dat  mair  hadn't 
heurd  you  er  hollerin'  on  de  fence  I  don't  b'leeve  she'd  eber 
made  dat  spurt  an'  won  de  race.'  An'  de  folks  all  'round  sed 
de  same  thing.  'Take  dis  money,'  he  sed.  'Now,  go  an'  help 
rub  her  off?'  Fur  er  fac'  he  did." 

"Jake-e-e!  Oh,  Jakey!"  came  a  terrific  voice  from  the 
back  porch.  A  glance  by  Brutus  showed  that  it  emanated 
from  the  center  of  a  dark,  moon-like  object  which  appeared 
to  be  in  an  eclipse,  for  a  deep  circle  of  red  bandanna — not 
unlike  the  rays  of  the  sun  creeping  over  its  edges — shone 
over  the  northern  hemisphere.  Beneath  this  cropped  out  a 
tuft  of  corded  hair,  not  unlike  the  peaks  of  a  lunar  mountain. 
The  moon  was  evidently  in  a  state  of  activity,  however,  for 
from  Brutus'  distance  the  terrific  "Jake-e!  Oh,  Jakey!"  which 
continued  to  pour  steadily  forth  seemed  to  come  out  of  a  vol 
canic  pit,  situated  near  the  southern  extremity  of  the  satel 
lite.  The  sphere  seemed  poised  on  an  object,  which,  from  the 
barn  door,  was  not  unlike  a  mountain  weighing  some  three 
hundred  pounds  and  decked  in  a  blue  checked  homespun, 
girdled  around  the  center  with  a  string.  At  the  sound  of  the 
voice — for  such  it  was,  and  it  came  from  Aunt  Fereby,  the 
cook — the  small  braggart  ceased  his  narration  as  suddenly  as 
if  he  had  met  the  fate  of  Ananias.  The  fat  person  in  the 
porch  became  greatly  excited.  Shading  her  eyes  with  a  hand 
covered  with  biscuit  dough,  she  looked  intently  at  the  barn 
door,  as  if  it  were  the  object  of  her  wrath,  and  screamed: 

"Don't  you  heah  me  callin'  you,  yer  raskill?" 

"Unc'  Brutus,"  said  the  small  person,  now  considerably 
rattled,  "is  dat  mammy  callin'  me?" 

"You  knb'  it  is,"  said  Brutus,  as  he  went  on  with  his  rub 
bing,  while  the  virago  still  held  her  hand  over  her  eyes  with 
a  look  of  vengeance  there. 


22  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

"What  am  she  doin'  now,"  asked  the  tamer  of  oxen,  in 
the  hallway,  "eny  thing  'cept  hollerin'?" 

"She's  gethered  up  her  cloze  to  her  knees,"  said  Brutus, 
as  he  glanced  up,  "an'  she's  cummin'  t' words  de  barn  wid  'er 
brush-broom  in  her  han's.  You'd  better  git,"  he  added  sig 
nificantly. 

But  Jakey  needed  not  this  admonition.  He  had  already 
departed  at  the  rear  door  of  the  barn.  However,  he  called 
back:  "Unc'  Brutus,  don't  forgit  ter  soak  de  bandages  in  ar 
nica  water  afore  you  put  'em  on  ole  Mistis'  legs.  You 
kno'— 

"You  git!"  said  Brutus,  picking  up  a  stout  cob.  "Git! 
Does  de  ole  rider  like  me  want  eny  tellin'  from  a  kid  of  yore 
stripe?"  But  Jake  had  already  hurried  out  of  the  rear  of  the 
barn,  intending  to  keep  on  down  the  rock  fence  and  turn  up 
suddenly  in  the  kitchen  with  a  bundle  of  "sage-grass"  in  his 
arms,  'as  evidence  that  he  had  been  on  the  errand  on  which 
he  had  been  sent.  But  these  tactics  must  have  been  played 
before,  for  the  party  armed  with  the  brush-broom  darted 
around  the  rear  of  the  stable,  instead  of  the  front,  and  im 
mediately  afterward  the  jockey  rubbing  off  the  gray  mare 
heard  a  painful  collision,  followed  by  yells  from  Jakey,  and 
the  regular  shewow,  shewow,  shewow  of  the  switches  as  the 
current  was  turned  on.  A  few  minutes  afterward  the  moun 
tain  and  moon  was  seen  hurriedly  advancing  back  to  the 
kitchen,  holding  her  youthful  scion  by  the  ear,  while  the  boy 
half  ran,  half  jumped,  with  now  and  then  a  yank  in  the  air 
from  his  mother  to  help  him  along,  and  getting  the  benefit 
of  the  after-clap — a  tongue  lashing. 

"Dat's  de  way  you  am,"  she  said  as  he  went  along( 
"spendin'  yore  life,  an'  sp'ilin'  yore  chances  for  usefulness  in 
dis  wurl'  an'  heb'n  in  de  naixt,  foolin'  wid  dat  low  jockey 
crowd  down  dar  at  de  barn,  an'  me  wurryin'  myself  ter  def 
tryin'  to  raise  you  right."  (A  yank.)  "Des'  lak  de  good  book 
say:  'A  thankles'  chile  am  sharper'n  a  suppent's  tooth' — 


FROM    TENNESSEE  23 

(yank!  yank!) — only  you  ain't  sharper  'tall — (a  vigorous 
twist) — ain't  sharper  nuff  to  hide  in  de  hay  loft  when  you  heah 
me  callin'  you  'stead  er  runnin'  out  dat  back  door  when  you 
dun  dat  trick  three  times  befo'  an'  think  I  ain't  got  sense 
nuff  to  kno'  it!  (Yank,  yank,  yank!)  But  I  needn't  'spec' 
you  to  do  nuffin  right — you  sp'iled  already.  Dar!  set  doun  dar 
in  dat  cornder,"  she  said  as  she  gave  him  a  final  yank  in  the 
air  and  landed  him  in  the  kitchen  corner,  "an"  eat  dat  crack- 
lin'  bread  I  dun  sabe  for  you  while  you  doun  dar  at  de  stable 
ruinin'  yore  immoral  soul  foolin'  wid  race  horses.  An'  what 
I  sabe  it  fur  you  fur?"  striking  an  attitude  and  looking  at  him 
with  convincing  scorn.  "Whut  fur,  I  say?  Jes'  to  teach  you 
a  lesson  frum  de  Bible,  to  let  you  kno'  it  allers  cums  true. 
Don't  it  say:  'De  way  ob  de  transgressor  am  hard?'  You 
dun  foun'  dat  out,  ain't  you?  Wai,  it  also  says:  'Blessed  am 
dey  dat  moans  fur  dey  shall  be  cumfetted.'  You  dun  hab  you 
moanin',  now  be  cumfitted  an'  thank  yore  stars  you  got  a 
good  mudder  dat  kno's  how  to  'terprit  de  scripters,"  and  she 
flung  herself  in  a  chair  and  proceeded  to  cool  off. 

Jakey  accepted  the  interpretation  of  the  skillet  of  crack 
ling  bread  and  having  dried  his  tears  on  his  sleeves,  and  felt 
of  his  ear  to  see  that  it  was  still  there,  he  fell  to  and  proceeded 
to  be  comforted  with  a  zeal  bordering  on  religious  enthusi 
asm. 

"But,  law!"  began  his  mammy,  after  a  pause,  "I  can't  do 
nuffin  wid  him.  I  heurd  Ole  Marster  say  de  big  race  cum  off 
soon  an'  he  gwine  take  you  erlong  es  a  muscat.  Dat's  de  way 
it  am;  "De  wicked  race  to  dar  own  destrucshun." 

Jake  stopped  eating  at  once.  "Is  dat  so,  mammy?"  with 
a  look  that  showed  how  he  stood  on  the  subject. 

For  answer  the  chair  was  vacated  in  an  instant  and  the 
brush-broom  picked  up. 

"Come,  come,  Fereby,  you  have  whipped  that  boy 
enough!" 

The  cook  dropped  her  switches  and  said  apologetically 


24  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

to  her  master — for  it  was  Col.  Dinwiddie  who  was  passing 
by  and  spoke — "Jes'  es  you  say,  Marster.  I'm  jes  tryin'  to 
raise  'im  right.  You  kno'  what  King  Sollermon  say:  'Spare 
de  rod  an'  spile  de  chile'  " — triumphantly! 

"Yes,  but  a  greater  one  than  Solomon  has  said: 
'Blessed  are  the  merciful;  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy.'  Jake" 
— to  the  boy — "go  unhitch  my  horse  from  the  rack  and 
take  him  to  the  barn,"  and  the  Colonel  went  on  in. 

The  boy  went  off  with  alacrity.  "  'Blessed  am  de  mer 
ciful,'  he  said  to  himself,  'fur  dey  shall  obtain  mercy.'  Dat's 
de  bes'  religun  I  eber  heurd  in  my  life.  Ef  all  ob  'em  had 
dat  kind  dar  wouldn't  be  a  brush-broom  or  a  mean  temper 
in  de  wurl,"  and  he  patted  the  horse  on  the  nose  and 
mounted  him.  Darkey  like,  he  put  him  through  all  his 
gaits  before  he  reached  the  barn. 

II. 

But  although  the  sun  shone  so  brightly  on  the  fertile 
fields  and  splendid  mansion  of  Col.  Dinwiddie,  there  was 
little  of  its  sunshine  in  the  heart  of  its  owner  on  that 
May  day,  fifty  years  ago.  With  a  paper  in  hand,  near 
sunset,  he  sat  out  on  his  front  veranda,  looking  dreamily 
and  moodily  ahead  at  a  sloping  wheat  field  across  the  pike. 
How  beautiful  it  looked!  How  the  recent  rains  had  brought 
it  out,  filling  its  golden  meshes — those  chaff  thatched  gran 
aries — with  the  product  of  the  sun  and  soil!  Near,  the  big 
poplars  in  his  own  yard  lifted  their  red  and  yellow  wax 
blossoms  to  heaven  or  showered  them  on  the  blue  grass  car 
pet  below.  A  hundred  sweet  fragrances  filled  the  evening  air, 
a  hundred  homely  sounds  fell  on  his  ears.  Among  them, 
and  dearer  than  all  others,  was  the  occasional  whinny  of  a 
stately  matron  in  the  paddock  beyond,  disturbed  for  a  mo 
ment  because  her  own  suckling  had  strolled  off  to  caper 
and  play  mimic  racing  with  some  other  mare's  degenerate 
offspring. 

"My   faculties   are   peculiarly   acute   this   evening,"   said 


FROM     TENNESSEE 


25 


the  master  to  himself,  "or  else  I  am  a  rank  coward,  unable 
to  stand  misfortune.  I  never  saw  the  old  place  have  such 
a  charm  before,"  he  continued,  half  aloud.  "I  don't  mind 
giving  it  up  so  much  on  my  own  account,  but  Anne" — 

"What!  father?"  answered  behind  him,  a  voice  full  of 
sweetness.  "Did  you  call  me?" — and  a  beautiful  girl  stepped 
out  from  a  bay  window  and,  laying  her  hands  affectionately 
on  his  shoulders,  reached  over  and  playfully  kissed  him. 

With  their  faces  together,  it  would  not  require  a  close 
observer  to  see  the  striking  resemblance  between  Anne  Din- 
widdie  and  her  father.  Left  motherless  at  an  early  age,  Anne 
had  found  in  one  parent  all  the  love  and  affection  usually 
given  by  two.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  Colonel's  tender 
ness  and  affection  for  his  daughter,  and  nothing  Anne's  pride, 
love  and  admiration  for  her  father.  Perhaps  her  life  with  a 
masculine  mind  had  given  a  stronger  turn  to  her  own,  in 
stead  of  the  feminine  cast  and  romantic  play  that  might  have 
been  expected  under  other  circumstances.  Or,  perhaps  she 
inherited  it  from  her  father — a  strong,  firm  man  himself — 
for  the  girl  was  as  much  known  for  her  practical  sense  and 
firmness  as  for  her  matchless  beauty.  This  evening,  in  her 
baby-waist  gown  of  white  muslin,  cut  low  neck  and  short 
sleeves,  her  auburn  hair  gracefully  coiled  behind  a  shapely 
head  and  tucked  in  with  a  large  mother-of-pearl  comb,  in 
laid  with  gold,  her  face  aglow  with  a  silent  happiness  which 
bespoke  another  love  within,  the  girl  was  divine,  and  her 
father  drew  her  to  her  old  place  on  his  knee — for  though 
nearly  twenty  she  was  to  him  the  little  tot  of  two  years — 
the  same  he  wept  over  in  her  crib  the  night  after  her  mother 
was  laid  away  forever,  and  the  first  great  grief  of  his  life 
came  to  break  in  on  his  ambition — the  ambition  "to  breed 
the  best  horse  that  ever  lived  on  the  best  farm  in  Tennessee." 

The  Colonel  was  a  man  that  spoke  to  the  point,  and  of 
few  words.  In  his  daughter  he  found  a  mind  in  which  his 
own  sought  help  and  advice.  All  his  business  was  known 


26  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

to  her.  Even  many  of  his  breeding  problems  he  had  tried 
to  solve  with  her  aid,  and  it  was  no  little,  for  she  had  pedi 
grees  and  records  at  her  tongue's  end  and  knew  the  great 
horses  of  the  past  as  mariners  did  the  stars. 

"My  child,"  said  her  father,  bluntly,  "I  have  gambled 
once  too  often;  I  am  afraid  I've  ruined  us/'  and  he  looked 
away  across  the  wheat  fields. 

An  expression  of  pain  came  over  the  girl's  strong  face, 
but  she  said  nothing.  This  one  question  of  gambling  on 
horses  was  the  only  one  on  which  her  father  and  herself 
had  differed,  and  the  look  she  now  wore  showed  that  at  last 
had  happened  what  she  always  feared  would  happen.  At 
length  she  asked: 

"How  much  is  it?" 

"Forty  thousand  dollars" —  his  eyes  still  on  the  distant 
fields. 

"Can  you  pay  it?"  in  a  tone  which  showed  she  was  more 
afraid  of  her  father's  honor  suffering  than  of  being  left  pen 
niless  herself. 

"Not  unless  I  sell  the  horses — ' 

"Then  sell  them,"  came  the  quick  answer. 

"And  the  farm,"  he  continued. 

"Let  it  go,  too." 

"My  child,"  said  her  father,  as  he  rested  his  eyes  stead 
ily  on  her  face,  "of  course  I  shall  if  it  comes  to  the  worst, 
but — but — "  and  he  caught  himself  stammering  like  a  school 
boy,  as  he  gazed  in  the  sweet,  honest  eyes  of  his  daughter — 
"Anne,  there — is — another" — he  stopped  again,  with  a  look  of 
positive  annoyance  on  his  clear-cut  face.  The  twilight  shad 
ows  had  fallen,  the  lamps  were  lit  in  the  hall,  but  still  the 
father  broke  not  the  silence. 

"Cur'pony!  Cur'pony!  Cur'pony!"  came  from  across  the 
meadow,  as  the  stable  boy  stood  in  the  pasture  and  called 
up  the  yearlings  for  their  evening  meal.  Around  the  corner 
of  a  neat  cabin  a  sprightly  young  negro  was  picking  a  banjo. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  27 

accompanying  the  deep,  rich  notes  of  the  instrument  with  a 
voice  in  perfect  attune — "Ahoo-a,  an'  er-who-ah — ahoo-a,  an' 
er-who-ah — ahoo — ahoo,"  sounded  the  voice  on  the  still  even 
ing  air,  and  the  echoing  strings  of  the  banjo  repeated— 
'ahoo — ahoo!' 

"But  what,  father?"  at  length  asked  the  daughter. 

"Why,  my  child,"  said  the  Colonel,  awakening  from  his 
revery,  "I  intended  telling  you  before.  I  should  have  men 
tioned  it,  I  am  sure,  several  days  ago,  only  I  did  so  hate 
to  do  it.  You  know  how  it  hurts  me  to  give  you  up!  But 
'tis  your  right  and  privilege  to  hear  and  my  duty  to  bear 
the  message  from  Capt.  Sidney.  A  few  days  ago  he  asked 
me  for  my  permission  to  approach  you  on  a  subject." 

The  girl  sprang  up,  her  face  crimson,  her  eyes  ablaze. 

"Your  permission,  father?  He  had  better  get  from  me 
some  token  of  at  least  a  partial  consent  for  him  to  approach 
you  on  such  a  subject!  Permission,  indeed!  Father,  I  hate 
the  man!" 

"My,  my,  my!"  said  her  father,  half  laughing,  half  as 
tounded,  "but  I  never  saw  you  so  stirred  up,  my  darling! 
Why,  Sidney  has  been  here  every  two  or  three  weeks  for 
a  dozen  years,  is  twice  your  age,  and  has  actually  seen  you 
grow  up  and  has  never  made  any  secret  of  waiting  for  you. 
Rich,  handsome,  jovial  and  actually  worships  you!  I  thought 
you  two  were  fine  friends." 

"Father,  Father!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "you  do  not  know 
me!  As  your  guest  and  friend  I  endured  Capt.  Sidney,  and 
treated  him  courteously.  But  do  you  think  a  girl  has  no 
heart,  no  ears,  no  eyes?  I  have  disdained  from  maiden  mod 
esty  to  tell  you  before  what  your  one  question  demands  of 
me  now.  Would  you  have  your  daughter  wed  a  man  whose 
excesses  have  even  reached  the  ears  of  as  unworldly  a  maid 
as  I?  Am  I  to  be  won  by  a  man  merely  because  he  is  your 
friend  and  is  'rich,  handsome,  jovial  and  worships  me,'  as 
you  say?  I  do  not  love  him — that  is  enough!  Oh,  father?" 


28  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

she  said  with  sudden  impulse,  as  she  seated  herself  in  his  lap 
and  took  his  face  in  both  her  hands  and  laid  her  face  against 
his,  "did  not  my  dear  mother  love  you?  You  know  what  I 
mean — how  I  mean!"  and  tears  rolled  down  from  her  brown 
eyes. 

"By  the  eternal,  you  are  right!"  said  the  Colonel,  as 
he  arose  hastily,  with  a  trace  of  emotion  in  his  own  voice, 
"I  hadn't  thought  of  that!  The  scamp!"  he  repeated  half 
aloud.  "I  like  him  myself,  but  what  am  I?  Only  a  gambler! 
He  is  another — a  gentleman — yes,  a  gentleman — but  a  gam 
bler  for  all  that!  And  his  excesses  in  other  directions — 
whew!  Anne!"  he  called,  as  he  kissed  her  and  started 
into  his  room,  "you  are  right — always  right — always  right. 
I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  and  the  door  closed  on  his  form, 
a  trifle  bent,  Anne  thought,  as  she  sank  in  a  chair  and  wept 
from  sympathy  for  her  father. 

But  there  never  was  a  girl  like  Anne  Dinwiddie.  Tears 
did  not  stay  with  her  long.  She  dismissed  the  captain  with 
a  contemptuous  sniff  as  she  vigorously  wiped  her  red  nose 
and  eyes,  and  then  she  fell  to  thinking  with  her  practical 
little  mind  to  find  a  way  to  help  her  father.  Throwing  an 
opera  shawl  over  her  head  and  rounded  shoulders — for  the 
air  was  chilly — she  sat  silently  rocking  and  looking  up  at 
the  stars.  Presently  the  big  gate  at  the  pike  shut  with  a 
bang  and  a  few  moments  later  the  rhythmical  feet  of  a  saddle 
horse  played  a  tune  as  they  pattered  up  the  gravel  walk. 
On  came  the  horseman  till  the  animal  reached  the  portico 
where  sat  the  silent  figure  in  white,  when  he  shied  suddenly 
to  the  left.  The  ease  with  which  the  rider  retained  his  seat 
showed  he  was  accustomed  to  such  antics  from  his  horse, 
and  the  dexterity  with  which  he  pressed  a  knee  in  the  ani 
mal's  chest  and  whirled  it  about  face  with  a  twist  of  a  firm 
hand,  made  the  girl's  eyes  sparkle  with  excitement.  In  a 
moment  the  rider  had  bounded  o'er  the  railing  with: 

"Hello!    Anne,  is   that   the   way   you   frighten    off   youi 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  29 

beaux?  Sit  out  here  in  the  dim  light  with  just  enough  white 
about  your  head  to  frighten  their  horses  to  death,  and  have 
them  plunging  all  about  over  your  white  pink  and  forget- 
me-not  beds?" 

"Jim!  Jim!  How  could  you?"  laughed  the  girl,  as  she 
arose  and  shook  his  hand.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  you  should  not 
come  over  to-night?  As  Uncle  Jack,  the  carriage  driver 
would  say,  you  are  a  positive  'nuessence.' " 

"O,  Anne,"  he  said,  with  boyish  enthusiasm,  as  he  drew 
a  chair  up  close  to  hers,  "I  just  couldn't  stay  away.  I  have 
thought  of  you  all  day.  'Jim  Wetherall,'  said  the  old  gen 
tleman  when  he  came  into  the  lower  field,  where  I  was  look 
ing  after  the  hands  plowing  and  let  them  all  go  down  to  the 
spring  for  water  and  waste  an  hour  idling  just  because  I  was 
thinking  of  you,  'Jim  Wetherall,  if  you  ain't  in  love  you  are 
just  a  lunatic,  and  that's  all.  Why  the  mischef  don't  you  look 
after  your  business?  And  is  this  the  way  you  let  them  run 
corn  rows  over  a  hillside,  with  such  a  fall  as  to  make  a  gully 
the  first  hard  rain  that  comes?' 

"After  supper  I  saddled  Troup,  and  thinks  I,  Til  just 
ride  over  and  look  at  the  light  in  her  window.'  But  may  you 
never  speak  to  me  again  if  the  rascal  Troup  didn't  turn  in 
the  gate  before  I  knew  it,  and  here  I  am.  And,  oh,  Anne, 
if  you  only  knew  how  I  love  you — " 

But  Jim's  mouth  was  stopped  with  a  hand  over  it — 
which  he  proceeded  to  kiss,  to  the  fair  owner's  chagrin — for 
she  immediately  withdrew  it  and  gave  the  kisser  a  rap  on 
the  head  with  the  other  one. 

"Jim!  Jim!  Don't  be  a  goose,"  she  said.  "You  don't 
know  how  sad  and  worried  I  am  to-night,"  and  she  pro 
ceeded  to  tell  him  all  her  father's  troubles. 

Jim  and  Anne  had  been  playmates  from  early  youth.  The 
boy,  though  really  a  man  now,  had  never  concealed  anything 
from  her — not  even  the  fact  that  he  always  had  and  always 
would  love  her.  Anne  had  laughed  at  him  in  her  sisterly 


30  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

way;  had  helped  him  in  his  studies  as  he  grew  up — for  she 
had  many  advantages  over  Jim,  whose  father  was  an  honest 
and  well-to-do  farmer.  The  boy,  under  her  influence,  had 
even  gone  to  college  and  managed  to  graduate,  but  was 
noted  more  for  his  hard  horse  sense,  as  they  called  it,  and 
his  frank  honesty,  than  for  any  great  leaning  toward  the 
classics  or  any  diplomatic  erudition.  "The  only  classic  I 
want,"  he  said  to  Anne,  after  he  came  back  home,  "is  you. 
When  I  think  of  you,  Anne,"  he  cried,  "I  see  all  the  god 
desses  and  nymphs  and  queens  of  old.  You  seem  to  me  like 
one  of  those  Grecian  temples  I  read  of,  with  pillars  so  stately 
and  everything  so  perfect.  You  seem  to  belong  to  another 
age,  so  different  from  mine — so  far  away,  and  sweet  and 
dreamy,  and  high  above  me,  and  for  which  my  soul  yearns. 
Oh,  Anne,  can't  you  love  me?" 

And  Anne  would  laugh  and  tell  him,  "Maybe,  Jim,  some 
day."  And  the  big  fellow  would  be  satisfied  and  glad  to  be 
allowed  to  see  her  now  and  then  and  bide  his  time. 

"Forty  thousand  dollars  is  a  big  sum  to  owe,"  said  the 
now  thoughtful  Jim,  when  Anne  had  told  him  all — and  Jim 
knew  by  the  way  she  spoke  that  she  was  silently  weeping. 
Then  she  said  softly: 

"Jim,  who  could  have  taken  such  an  advantage  of  father; 
Perhaps  it  was  fair  as  far  as  gambling  goes,  Jim,  but  you 
know  how  honorable  and  fair  father  is,  and — and — I've  heard 
those  kind  always  lose  in  the  end,  you  know,  Jim." 

Jim  was  silent.  "Must  I  really  tell  you,  Anne?"  he  said 
at  length.  "Well,  it  is  none  other  than  Capt.  Sidney." 

"Oh,  Jim!"  said  Anne,  in  astonishment,  "how  did  you 
know?" 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  quietly.  "It  would  not  be  alto 
gether  manly  for  me  to  tell  you,  Anne,  but  I  know  it  for 
a  certainty;  besides  I've  an  idea  in  my  head  that  may  help 
us." 

"Oh.  Jim!  do,  do  help  us — dear  Jim."  she  said  impul- 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  31 

sively,  "you  are  clever  and  know  so  much  that  is  practical, 
and  are  so  honest  and  kind  and  true.  Oh,  Jim,  if  you  can 
help  us  I  never  will  forget " 

"Anne!"  he  said,  catching  her  hand,  "God  knows  I  would 
die  for  you  or  the  Colonel,  either.  He's  been  the  kindest, 
best  friend  I  ever  had.  He's  a  gentleman — every  inch  of 
him — and  you,  oh,  Anne,  I  would  die  if  you  were  out  of  my 
life!  But,"  he  said,  suddenly  checking  himself,  "please  for 
give  me — this  is  no  time  for  that.  What  a  goose  I  am!" 
After  a  pause:  "Anne,  I'm  going  now.  My  head  is  too 
full  of  a  plan  I  have  to  talk  any  longer.  A  calamity  such 
as  you  have  mentioned  would  simply  wreck  your's  and  the 
Colonel's  life — and  mine,  too,"  he  added,  slowly,  "if  your's 
was.  We  all  have  a  chance  some  time  in  life  to  show  what 
we're  made  of,"  he  continued,  "and  now  is  my  time.  And 
I  am  going  in  heart  and  soul.  I'll  show  you  I'm  no  feather 
bed  friend,  but  one  who  can  love  in  prosperity  and  love 
harder  in  adversity.  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do — but, 
Anne,  I'll  try,  for  your's  and  the  Colonel's  sake — even  if 
you  marry  another.  Don't  cry" — for  Anne  was  crying  softly 
— "but  good  night.  You  will  hear  from  me  again,"  and  the 
brave  fellow  was  in  the  saddle. 

"Jim!" 

The  horse  was  spurred  up  close  under  the  balcony. 

"Jim!" 

And  the  golden  head  bent  over  the  railing,  till  the  red 
lips  touched  his  ear,  and  the  smell  of  her  perfumed  hair 
seemed  to  the  bewildered  Jim  like  the  glory  of  the  fragrant 
locks  of  all  the  goddesses  of  ancient  Greece. 

"Jim,  dear  Jim!  I — I — think — I — love — you — now.  Good 
night!"  And  she  was  gone,  while  Jim  sat  in  mute  silence 
and  inexpressible  happiness,  looking  up  in  the  eyes  of  two 
stars  that  twinkled  above  where  her  own  had  just  been.  And 
looking,  Jim  wondered  whether  he  was  really  alive  or  horse 
back,  or  was  only  a  spirit  of  joy  winging  its  way  to  the  two 


32  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

stars  which  shone  above  him  in  the  place  of  Anne's  eyes. 

A  moment  later  Troup,  his  saddle  horse,  became  con 
vinced  there  was  no  spirit  there,  for  he  felt  a  vigorous  thrust 
from  anything  but  a  spiritual  foot  in  his  side,  and  he  bounded 
away  in  a  gallop. 

III. 

For  several  days  Anne  was  in  a  state  of  quiet  happi 
ness.  She  did  not  see  Jim  for  a  week — she  did  not  want  to. 
She  did  not  know  what  was  going  to  happen,  but  she  felt 
as  if  something  was,  and  that  all  was  safe.  She  sang  around 
the  house  like  a  bird.  It  all  flashed  over  her  one  day  when 
her  father  said  at  the  tea  table: 

"That  boy  Jim  Wetherall  is  a  trump.  He  has  got  more 
horse  sense  in  a  minute  than  I  have  in  a  year!"  Anne  looked 
up  in  astonishment.  The  Colonel  continued.  "You  know 
Ole  Mistis  is  entered  in  the  Cumberland  Futurity,  worth 
$50,000  to  the  winner.  I  have  never  regarded  her  as  a  prom 
ising  candidate,  and  of  late  she  has  been  going  so  badly 
in  her  work  under  the  new  jockey  that  I  had  abandoned  the 
idea  of  paying  the  final  entrance  fee.  But  Jim — you  know 
how  interested  he  has  always  been  in  the  horses,  Anne! — 
(but  Anne  was  busy  with  her  teacup,  while  her  cheeks  were 
scarlet) — seems  to  be  more  so  of  late,  and  has  been  over 
every  day.  He  soon  convinced  me  the  mare  was  shod  wrong 
and  that  the  boy  Brutus  knew  nothing  about  his  business. 
'Why,  Colonel,'  he  said,  in  his  blunt  way,  'he  shouldn't  ride 
a  speckled  steer  to  water  for  me — the  mare  is  fast,  very  fast 
— he  doesn't  understand  her.'  And  what  do  you  reckon?" 
Anne  could  not  imagine!  "Why,  he  is  actually  working 
her  himself,  with  Jake  as  a  rider,  and  I  never  saw  such  im 
provement,  Anne,"  he  said  as  he  came  around  to  her  chair. 
"If  I  could  only  win  that  stake  it  would  be  the  happiest  day 
of  my  life.  Nyever  more  would  I  race  a  horse — never  again 
would  I  gamble.  I  feel  almost  upset  of  late.  I  am  weak 
and  peevish,  vacillating  and  unnerved.  Last  night,"  he  said, 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 


33 


slowly,  and  with  more  seriousness  than  was  his  custom,  "I 
dreamed  of  your  dear  mother,  child,  and  her  sweet,  dark 
eyes  seemed  full  of  pity  and  sorrow,"  and  Col.  Dinwiddie 
walked  slowly  over  to  the  portrait  which  hung  on  the  wall 
and  stood  looking  at  it  in  silent  admiration,  while  his  daugh 
ter  came  up  and  put  her  arms  around  him  with,  "Never 
mind,  father;  don't  be  worried.  Just  let  Jim  take  charge — 
he  is  clever  and  honest,  and  will  surprise  you  yet." 

The  morning  of  the  greatest  race  ever  run  on  Tennessee 
soil  came.  The  city  was  crowded  with  visitors;  excitement 
was  at  fever  heat. 

"We  haven't  a  chance  in  the  world,  Anne,"  said  Col. 
Dinwiddie  to  his  daughter,  as  she  sat  in  the  grand  stand, 
dazed  and  confused  with  the  mighty  crowd  around  her  and 
a  terrible  weight  on  her  heart.  "It  is  not  so  bad  as  that, 
Anne,"  said  Jim,  who  had  come  up  to  whisper  a  few  words 
of  encouragement  before  the  horses  started;  "there  is  always 
a  chance  in  a  horse  race.  The  best  one  may  break  his  leg 
in  ten  feet  of  the  wire.  So  don't  be  altogether  wretched," 
and  he  went  off  to  look  after  the  mare. 

Two  o'clock!  The  crowd  was  immense.  Never  before 
was  assembled  such  a  galaxy  of  beauty  and  gallantry  in  the 
Volunteer  state.  The  riders  were  weighed,  horses  handi 
capped  and  all  sent  up  the  stretch. 

Jake  was  delighted  when  told  he  was  to  ride  ole  Mistis. 
He  was  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the  mare  was  thought  to 
be  in  no  fix  to  win  and  that  the  betting  was  10  to  I  against 
her. 

"All  enybody's  got  ter  do,"  he  said  to  himself,  "is  to 
set  on  her  and  guide  'er.  I'd  like  to  see  'em  beat  ole  Mistis!" 

But  when  his  master  came  to  him  in  the  stretch  to  give 
him  instructions  even  the  little  darkey  saw  something  was 
wrong.  He  had  never  seen  the  Colonel  look  that  way  be 
fore.  His  eyes  were  stern,  but  expressionless;  his  voice 
husky  with  emotion,  and  the  quick  spirit  of  command 


34 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


seemed  to  have  given  way  to  the  evil  genius  of  despair. 
Quiet  and  commanding  as  ever,  but  Jake  saw  he  was  in  no 
mood  to  be  crossed  and  all  but  guessed  his  master  had 
made  up  his  mind  for  defeat  and  ruin. 

"Jake!" 

"Yes,    Marster,"   said  Jake. 

"Listen  to  what  I  tell  you,  and  do  as  I  tell  you.  Do  you 
sec  that  bay  horse  there?" 

"Yes,  Marster,"  and  Jake  cast  his  keen  eye  contemptu 
ously  on  the  bay. 

"Well,  Jake,  they  say  he  is  going  to  beat  my  mare.  If 
he  does" — he  clutched  Jake's  arm  tightly,  so  tight  the  boy 
winced,  and  his  master's  voice  sunk  to  a  whisper  as  he  said — 
"If  they  do,  Jake,  I  am  ruined,  ruined,  ruined!" — and  the  boy 
almost  quailed  before  the  stern  expression  that  gleamed  from 
his  master's  eyes.  Then  he  resumed:  "Now  listen;  the 
bay  will  set  the  pace,  but  do  you  keep  up  with  him — easy 
as  you  can,  but  up  to  him — stay  with  him.  It's  four  miles, 
and  a  death  struggle;  but  the  mare  can  go  the  route.  When 
you  come  in  the  stretch  at  the  last  mile,  take  this  rawhide"- 
drawing  a  keen  whip — "and  whip  her  from  the  last  eighth 
home.  It's  your  only  chance,  and  not  much  at  that.  Do 
you  hear  me?"  for  Jake  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Marster," — slowly — "you  sho'ly  don't  'spec'  me  ter 
whip  ole  Mistis  wid  dis?" — apologetically. 

"Expect  you?"  thundered  the  Colonel.  "Did  you  hear 
what  I  said?  Do  as  I  tell  you  or  I'll  have  the  overseer  to 
flay  you  alive  after  this  race.  Do  you  hear,  now?" 

"Yes,  Marster,"  said  Jake,  as  he  took  the  whip  and 
turned  the  mare  into  line.  But  to  himself  he  said: 

"Whut!  Me  beat  ole  Mistis  wid  dis  thing?  Ole  Mis 
tis — my  Ole  Mistis?  I'll  take  it  myself  fust!  Sho'ly  Marster 
ain't  at  hissef" — and  he  looked  around  to  see  where  the  bay 
horse,  Loraine,  was.  At  that  moment  Jim  Wetherall  came 
up. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  35 

"Jake,"  he  said,  "what  did  the  Colonel  tell  you?"  Jake 
told  him.  "That's  all  right;  now  listen  to  me.  Do  you  see 
that  path  of  firm  clay  there  in  the  center  of  the  track?  Well, 
it  runs  from  the  last  eighth  to  the  wire.  I  worked  all  the 
morning  with  ten  teams  to  put  it  there.  The  track  is  too 
soft  for  the  mare,  Jake;  and,  besides,  you  know  how  she  is. 
She's  foolish  about  things  at  the  old  home,  ain't  she,  Jake?" 

"Dat  she  is,  Marse  Jim." 

"And  we've  run  her  on  the  clay  path  in  the  orchard 
for  weeks,  haven't  we,  Jake?  Well,  now,  boy,  what  we  want 
to  do  is  to  make  the  old  mare  feel  at  home.  When  you 
come  round  the  last  time  throw  her  on  this  path — the  foot 
ing  is  good — cut  her  loose,  and  I  don't  believe  any  of  them 
can  head  you!" 

Jake  nodded.  "And  don't  forget  this,"  he  said,  "I've 
got  a  thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket  to  buy  you  if  you  win 
this  race,  and,  on  the  word  of  Jim  Wetherall,  I'll  set  you 
free.  Do  you  understand  me,  Jake?" 

The  negro's  eyes  fell.  "I'll  win  it  eny  way,  ef  I  can, 
Marse  Jim.  Whut  I  wanter  be  free  fur — whut'd  I  do  erway 
frum  ole  Marster  an'  Ole  Mistis?"  And  Jake  waited  for  the 
word. 

But  all  were  not  ready,  and  the  longer  they  waited  the 
more  intense  became  the  boy's  anxiety.  Left  to  himself  in  a 
crowd  of  rough  jockeys,  who  did  what  they  could  to  frighten 
the  mare  and  annoy  the  boy,  it  was  almost  pathetic  to  see 
him  reach  over  and  stroke  the  great  gray's  neck  and  say  to 
her:  "Doncher  be  afeerd,  ole  Mistis — dis  am  Jake — little 
Jake,"  and  then  he  would  add,  softly  and  tenderly,  "He  ain't 
gwineter  hit  you — my  ole  Mistis — my  ole  Mistis." 

And  what  a  wonderful  change  came  over  the  mare! 
Not  to-day,  as  she  had  been  on  former  occasions,  was  she 
nervous  and  unruly,  whirling  'round  and  'round,  endeavor 
ing  to  break  away,  or  refusing  to  line  up.  Her  entire  nature 
seemed  changed — Jake's  presence  was  magical.  She  stood 


36  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

perfectly  still,  quiet  and  apparently  indifferent — and  only  in 
her  quick,  glancing  eye  and  the  almost  imperceptible  play 
of  her  ears  could  a  close  observer  have  seen  the  great  strug 
gle  going  on  within  her — a  struggle  to  control  the  frantic 
desire  for  wild  flight — a  desire  inherited  from  an  hundred 
ancestors — now  fighting  for  possession  of  her  nature.  It  was 
a  grand  example,  even  in  a  brute,  of  will  conquering  pas 
sion,  of  dumb  intelligence  controlling  brute  force,  of  a  small 
ray  of  human  reason,  playing  like  an  electric  spark  through 
clouds  of  tumultuous  darkness  and  waiting  for  the  explosion 
that  would  make  the  thunderbolt! 

The  starter  is  talking — Jake  knows  not  what,  but  he 
gathers  the  reins  tighter.  The  flag  drops;  the  ball  of  living, 
flying  flesh  is  shot:  a  roar  answers  back  from  the  grand 
stand  which  says,  "They're  off!  They're  off!" 

Jake  had  great  confidence  in  his  master's  judgment. 
Ignoring  every  other  horse,  he  kept  his  small,  black  eyes  on 
the  big,  galloping  bay,  and  his  swaggering,  insolent  rider. 
Unused  to  the  crowd  and  the  flying  speed,  the  sensation  of 
riding  so  fast,  for  the  first  quarter,  was  almost  painful  to 
Jake — he  appeared  to  himself  to  be  flying  in  the  air,  tied 
to  a  projectile.  The  roar  of  the  wind  in  his  ears  hurt  them; 
he  dodged  instinctively,  and  with  a  silent  prayer  placed  his 
mount  on  the  side  of  the  bay  and  held  her  in.  The  rider  of 
Loraine  was  an  old  jockey  and  knew  as  well  as  the  gam 
blers  what  horse  he  had  to  beat,  as  well  as  the  almost  invin 
cible  prowess  of  his  own  horse — there  was  nothing  there 
could  beat  him! 

"Don't  ride  so  fast,  little  nig."  he  shouted  to  Jake  in 
derision.  "Gib  de  rest  of  us  a  showin';  we've  got  fo'  miles 
to  go;  don't  pump  us  out  de  fust  mile." 

But  this  disturbed  not  Jake.  If  a  negro  has  one  quality 
overtopping  all  others  it  is  his  infinite  patience.  And  Jake 
was  a  true  type  of  his  race.  He  said  nothing,  but  no  snake 


FROM    TENNESSEE  37 

in  the  swamp  had  a  quicker  eye,  or  knew  better  when  to 
strike. 

As  the  Colonel  had  said,  Loraine  had  set  the  pace,  and 
it  was  hot  enough.  "But  look,  Anne,"  he  said,  "how  the 
mare  goes  to  his  girth  and  stays  there!  See  with  what  a 
bold  and  assuring  stride  she  flies  along — easy,  graceful,  un 
concerned.  I  never  saw  her  run  so!  Great  God!  if  she 
will  only  win!"  And  Anne,  when  she  saw  the  gallant  fight, 
cried  softly  to  herself  and  sent  up  a  silent  prayer. 

"Cum  on  little  woolly-head,"  said  Loraine's  rider,  as  they 
passed  the  first  mile,  "dis  am  gwinter  be  er  hoss-race.  I'm 
jes  playing  wid  you  now  to  get  your  wind — by  an'  by  I'll  leave 
you  an'  de  ole  mare  in  de  home-stretch  to  pick  grass."  But 
the  satyr  imp  said  never  a  word,  and  the  gray  mare,  as  she 
pulled  anon  on  the  bit,  told  even  her  inexperienced  rider  that 
she  had  a  reserve  supply  of  speed.  But  how  much?  And 
did  the  bay  have  more? 

On  they  went!  Two  miles!  Jake  knew  it  by  a  second 
roar  from  the  stand  as  they  passed.  He  tried  to  look  forward 
but  the  wind  cut  his  eyes;  he  recognized  only  a  black  mass 
of  shouting  humanity.  Loraine's  driver  still  rode  uncon 
cerned  and  indifferent.  Jake  dreaded  the  moment  when  he 
would  act,  when  he'd  send  the  bay  for  the  death  struggle. 
The  boy's  heart  beat  like  a  drum,  his  breath  came  in  gasps, 
his  throat  was  dry!  "Cum  on  little  nig,"  he  heard  no  more, 
for  the  bay  was  pulling  away,  and  the  rushing  air  was  an 
organ  hurricane  playing  a  thousand  tunes  in  his  ear.  The 
sunshine  flashed  a  thousand  kaleidoscopic  colors  before  his 
eyes!  He  seemed  to  be  flying,  but  whether  backward  or  for 
ward  he  knew  not.  "Cum  on  little" — but  he  barely  caught 
the  sound,  so  far  away  did  Loraine's  rider  appear  to  be. 
Another  roar!  Three  miles!  The  track  was  a  small  white 
line  stretched  in  the  air.  Jake  heard  the  shouts  of  the  riders 
behind  him,  the  slashing  of  many  whips  as  the  keen  instru 
ments  of  torture  fell  on  straining  flanks.  His  own  mare 


38  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

scudded  before  the  field  of  noise  behind  her  as  a  sea-bird 
before  the  hurricane's  roar,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  get  no 
nearer  the  demon  bay  that  flew  fearlessly  along.  She  pulled 
on  her  bit!  Instinct  seemed  to  tell  her  she  must  go  now  or 
never.  "Not  yit,  ole  Mistis,  not  yit!"  said  her  ashen-faced 
driver,  as  he  bent  to  her  stride  and  patted  her  sweat-covered 
neck.  At  the  last  half!  It  seemed  to  Jake  they  had  gone 
a  day's  journey — that  time  had  stopped  and  eternity  had  be 
gun  since  he  shot  away  on  that  frenzied  ride.  How  many 
long  miles  yet  lay  between  him,  it  seemed,  and  where  Miss 
Anne  sat,  pale  and  statue-like,  in  the  blurred  bank  of  human 
ity  under  the  grand  stand!  The  last  quarter!  Jake  raised  in 
his  stirrups.  "Now,  ole  Mistis,  go!"  he  fairly  shouted,  as 
he  gave  her  full  head  for  the  first  time.  The  mare  responded 
with  a  gallant  leap — another  and  another — but  no  nearer 
did  she  come  to  the  bay.  Loraine  had  been  turned. loose, 
too,  and  increased  the  distance  between  them  with  demoni 
acal  swiftness!  Like  a  death-stab  the  thought  went  through 
Jake's  mind  for  the  first  time  that  he  could  not  win.  The 
tears  gushed  to  his  eyes,  the  blood  seemed  to  congeal  in  his 
very  heart;  he  clutched  the  saddle  to  retain  his  seat.  Loraine 
was  just  ahead;  they  were  now  at  the  last  eighth.  Frenzied 
—  frantic  —  blinded  —  bewildered,  Jake  knew  not  what  he 
did.  In  despair  he  raised  his  whip,  it  flashed  a  moment  in 
the  sunlight,  then  went  whistling  across  the  track.  He  had 
thrown  it  away!  But  look!  Loraine  now  fairly  flew!  He 
seemed  to  know  the  time  had  come.  His  own  mare?  She 
was  falling  back.  He  knew  it,  he  felt  it — he  was  beaten! 
Overcome  with  grief  and  shame,  he  forgot  all  about  Loraine. 
He  thought  only  of  the  old  home,  of  his  love  for  his  master, 
of  Miss  Anne,  of  his  idolatrous  worship  of  the  mare, 
mingled  with  the  fact  that  he  had  ruined  them  all.  A  clay 
path  flashed  under  the  mare's  nose,  and  then  he  thought  of 
Jim  Wetherall's  words — of  his  promised  freedom.  Crazed 
with  fear  and  shame,  he  guided  the  mare  in  the  path,  let  out 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  39 

all  his  rein,  and  flung  himself  forward  on  her  neck,  clinging 
to  her  mane  like  an  imp  on  a  flying  cloud.  Thrusting  two 
brown  heels  into  her  flanks,  he  burst  out  crying,  and  in 
tones  that  moved  even  the  victorious  rider  of  Loraine,  he 
sobbed:  "Ole  Mistis!  Ole  Mistis!  Dis  am  Jake— little  Jake! 
Go  home,  Ole  Mistis!  Go  home,  Ole  Mistis!!!  Go  home!!!" 

To  the  surprise  of  the  spectators,  who  now  looked  on 
the  victory  of  Loraine  as  complete,  the  mare  answered  this 
pathetic  call  with  a  burst  of  speed  unheard  of  on  the  track 
even  to  this  day.  A  thousand  demons  of  determination 
blazed  in  her  eyes.  One — two — three  leaps  she  made,  like 
a  startled  doe  at  the  death  bleat  of  her  fawn,  and  in  a  twink 
ling  she  had  cleared  the  distance  between  herself  and  the 
bay.  The  crowd  roared  in  a  tumult  of  excitement — men 
climbed  on  one  another's  shoulders — the  gray  mare  came  like 
a  rocket!  Loraine's  driver,  startled  and  now  thoroughly  in 
earnest,  went  to  his  whip.  It  flashed  a  moment  in  the  air 
and  fell  with  stinging  emphasis  on  the  bay's  shoulders!  The 
animal  swerved — that  blow  was  his  ruin,  for  the  gallant  bay, 
never  before  having  felt  a  blow,  swerved  slightly  to  avoid 
it.  Only  a  yard  or  two — but  yards  are  miles  when  seconds 
are  hurricanes!  Only  a  moment  of  indecision — but  inde 
cision  is  mutiny  when  stakes  are  kingdoms!  Like  a  swallow 
before  the  blast,  the  gray  mare  thrust  her  long  neck  under 
the  wire — and  the  race  was  won! 

A  moment  later  the  crowd  of  shouting,  frenzied  people 
ceased  shouting  to  a  man,  when  the  fleet  animal,  having 
no  one  to  guide  her,  turned  so  suddenly  into  the  drawgate 
that  opened  on  the  infield  as  to  hurl  Jake  off,  and  left  him 
mangled  on  the  track.  Later  they  stood,  a  surging  crowd, 
around  a  beautiful  girl  seated  on  the  ground  and  holding  a 
bruised  and  bleeding  face  in  her  lap,  upon  which  her  own 
tears  fell.  The  boy  opened  his  eyes  and  half  unconsciouslj 
began  to  murmur:  '"Most  home,  Ole  Mistis!  'Most  home, 
Ole  Mistis!  'Most  home!"  Presently  a  ray  of  conscious- 


4o 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


ness  came  back  to  his  lusterless  orbs,  as  he  recognized  his 
young  mistress  and  exclaimed:  "Oh,  Miss  Anne,  did  we 
win?"  and  interpreting  correctly  the  half  joyous  smile  that, 
despite  her  tears,  shone  'round  her  mouth  at  thought  of  their 
victory,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  said:  "Thang  God,  an'  I 
didn't  tech  'er  a  lick.  Tell  marster  I'm  sorry  —  but  —  I— 
couldn't  —  hit  —  'er!"  For  a  moment  he  was  silent  and  then 
his  lips  moved  again  —  feebly,  for  the  life  spark  was  nearly 
gone:  "  'Blessed  —  am  —  de  —  merciful  —  fur  —  dey  —  shall  —  obtain 
mercy'  —  "  and  the  little  slave  was  free  forever. 


THE  BLUE-GRASS  PLOT. 

OTHE  blue-grass  plot,  the  blue-grass  plot, 
j       Where  I  played  in  the  days  long  gone, 
Where  the  sweet  grass  grew  'neath  the  morning  dew 

And  my  life  was  a  summer  morn. 
The  wild-rose  spread  o'er  the  porch  over  head 

And  the  swallows  chirped  sweet  in  their  flight, 
But  the  birds  are  fled  and  the  roses  are  dead 
And  I'm  far  from  the  old  home  to-night. 

O,  the  blue-grass  plot,  in  the  old  back  lot, 

How  I  long  to  be  there  once  more, 
With  the  colts  in  the  shade  the  elm  tree  made, 

And  my  mother's  form  at  the  door. 
Where  the  brook  brawled  along,  with  its  sweet  glad  song, 

And  I  played  with  my  dog  in  his  glee, 
Till  I  thought  all  the  gleam  of  the  sun  and  the  stream 

Was  made  for  my  dog  and  for  me. 

O,  the  blue-grass  plot,  in  the  old  back  lot, 
How  I  long  for  your  cool,  quiet  shade! 
When  the  sun  went  down  and  the  crescent  crown 


FROM    TENNESSEE 

Of  the  moon  'rose  over  the  glade, 
How  we  romped  on  the  sheen  of  thy  dewy  green 

With  a  shout  and  a  laughter  wild, 
'Till  called  to  our  beds  where  three  weary  heads 

Soon  slept  the  sweet  sleep  of  the  child. 

O,  the  blue-grass  plot,  the  blue-grass  plot, 

O  the  mem'ry  of  childhood  days! 
'Tis  bright  as  light  in  a  cheerless  night  — 

"Tis  sweet  as  the  hearth-stone  blaze. 
It  comes  with  the  thrill  of  a  form  that  is  still 

And  a  voice  now  hushed  forever, 
To  point  our  soul  to  that  better  goal  — 

The  Grass-plot  over  the  River. 


TO  A  SWEET  PEA. 
(Which,  climbing  in  a  rose-bush,  had  escaped  the  first  frost.) 

COME,  little  fairy,  with  your  outstretched  wings, 
Tiptoeing,  with  your  cloudless  eyes  a-dream, 
Why  art  thou  here  where  late  the  bluebird  sings, 

And  all  thy  sisters  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream? 
Dost  fear  to  die?    'Tis  but  a  mental  pain  — 
And  each  must  sleep  if  each  would  wake  again. 

Ah,  child  of  rainbow  and  the  setting  sun, 

Flirting  all  summer  where  the  poppies  grow, 

Death  came  before  your  little  task  was  done? 

(He  has  that  way  as  we  poor  mortals  know!)  — 

Then  why  seek  shelter  'neath  the  rose's  breast? 

For  each  must  sleep  if  each  have  perfect  rest. 

Afraid  to  go  clad  in  that  gaudy  gown? 


42 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Poor  little  dancing  spirit  of  wild  joy! 
God  made  thee  such;  nor  will  He  ever  frown 

On  any  work  of  His,  tho*  sad  th'  alloy. 
Go  as  thou  art,  if  honest  be  thy  aim  — 
For  God  made  honor  everywhere  the  same. 

Nor  fear  to  go!     On  some  far  twinkling  star 
There  is  a  home  for  butterflies  like  thee  — 

As  sterner  worlds  for  sterner  spirits  are, 
So  fairer  worlds  for  sweeter  beings  be. 

Good-by!      Some   day   I'll   catch  thy  faint  perfume, 

And  know  it  bloweth  from  immortal  bloom. 


A  CAVALRY  DRILL  IN  OLD  TENNESSEE. 

FALL  in,  gentlemen,  fall  in!  Two  erbreast  there,  an'  no 
foolishness!  Tom  Riddick,  can't  you  keep  that  mule 
still?  Come,  come,  gentlemen,  do  fall  in  at  the  command! 
Do  git  into  line!  Promptness  is  the  fust  thing  in  milertary." 
It  was  a  balmy  Saturday  evening  in  a  village  of  Ten 
nessee  —  a  drill  day  with  the  boys  —  about  the  year  1848.  To 
correctly  understand  this  sketch,  and  it  is  taken  from  nature, 
reader,  we  must  first  ask  you  to  remember  that  from  its 
earliest  history  Tennessee  has  been  called  the  "volunteer 
state,"  an  appellation  won  by  the  promptness  of  her  sons 
to  respond  to  their  country's  call  for  volunteers.  In  fact, 
the  state  may  almost  be  said  to  have  been  born  fighting,  if 
such  a  term  may  be  applied  to  an  abstract  commonwealth, 
for  certain  it  is,  that  her  sons  played  a  conspicuous  part  in 
the  revolutionary  war,  before  the  then  "western  territory  of 
North  Carolina"  had  been  divided  off  into  the  present  state 
of  Tennessee.  After  that  war  the  aggressive  spirit  of  the 
warlike  tribes  of  Indians  which  occupied  the  beautiful  coun 
try  of  middle  and  west  Tennessee  and  the  fine  virgin  land 


FROM    TENNESSEE  43 

of  the  Gulf  States,  assisted  in  no  small  degree  in  keeping 
up  that  military  spirit  so  earnestly  begun  in  the  earlier  days. 
It  needed  only  the  fiery  spirit  of  Andrew  Jackson  to  firmly 
fix  the  fighting  spirit  of  the  state,  and  in  him  it  received  the 
full  measure  of  all  that  was  needed — yes,  and  more.  The 
head  and  front  of  all  this  military  enthusiasm  was  centered  in 
the  infantry  musters,  cavalry  drills  being  rarer,  and,  we  be 
lieve,  not  often  attempted  till  the  period  directly  following 
the  Mexican  war,  and  then  not  to  the  extent  of  the  old 
musters.  The  following  account  given  us  by  an  octo 
genarian  of  the  good  old  times  we  have  endeavored  faithfully 
to  narrate.  If  it  appears  a  little  rough,  reader,  pray  remem 
ber  that  those  were  rough  and  ready  times,  and  that  to 
attempt  to  describe  the  drill  without  giving  the  language  and 
personnel  of  the  drillers  would  be  like  painting  a  battle  scene 
and  leaving  out  the  blood. 

"Fall  in,  gentlemen,  fall  in!" 

This  command  came  from  Col.  Dick  Posey,  a  fine  old 
gentleman  of  sixty  years,  who  had  seen  service  in  the  war  of 
1812  and  the  Mexican  war,  brave,  honest,  simple  and  unaf 
fected,  but  who  had  forgotten  all  his  military  learning  except 
a  proud  and  martial  bearing,  and  that  "all  cavalrymen  must 
turn  out  their  toes  while  riding."  On  this  particular  evening 
the  Colonel's  bearing  was  truly  grand,  the  occasion  being  one 
of  great  importance  to  him;  for  aside  from  the  fact  that  he 
was  proud  of  the  military  position  he  held  and  the  reputation 
he  had  made  in  the  war,  it  was  well  known  that  the  Colonel 
was  a  candidate  for  the  state  legislature,  and  much  of  his 
success  depended  on  the  manner  in  which  he  displayed  his 
knowledge  of  war.  He  was  mounted  on  a  long,  slim,  raw- 
boned  black  mare,  whose  every  rib  could  be  counted,  but  as 
fat  as  a  nervous  three-quarter  thoroughbred  could  well  be 
with  the  saddle  scarcely  ever  off  of  her  during  the  day,  and  as 
often  as  once  a  week  good  for  a  half-night's  chase  after  the 
hounds.  She  carried  a  high  head  and  a  rat-tail,  and  was  so 


44 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


thin  in  the  girth  that  the  Colonel  could  almost  wrap  his  long 
legs  around  her.  Withal,  she  was  a  great  fool  and  ready  to 
shy  at  the  slightest  provocation,  a  trick  which  gave  her 
owner  the  opportunity  he  wanted  to  show  off  his  skill  as  a 
rider. 

To  the  Colonel's  side  was  buckled  a  long  saber  that 
nearly  touched  the  ground,  balanced  by  a  pistol  in  a 
holster  that  looked  large  enough  to  be  a  leather  coffin  for  a 
baby  mummy.  This  pistol,  by  the  way,  was  a  character 
that  we  cannot,  in  justice,  pass  over  without  a  word  as  to  its 
individuality.  It  was  loaded  by  means  of  powder,  balls  and 
caps,  and  was  nearly  as  heavy  as  a  sporting  gun  of  to-day. 
Its  peculiarity  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  was  exceedingly  "touch- 
ous"  about  going  off,  and  if  loaded  too  heavily,  when  fired, 
every  chamber  went  off  simultaneously,  the  balls  flying  in 
every  direction  except  straight  forward.  It  required  more 
skill  to  fire  it  without  killing  everybody  on  each  side  of  it 
than  it  now  requires  to  properly  fire  a  Catling  or  a  Hotch- 
skiff.  But  to  return  to  the  Colonel.  A  homespun  suit,  dyed 
with  copperas,  a  slouched  hat  and  feather  and  cavalry  boots 
completed  his  attire. 

His  company  consisted  of  fifty  or  more  farmers  mounted 
on  nearly  every  beast  that  the  soil  of  the  state  would  grow. 
Jim  McHyde,  the  wit  of  the  village,  had  even  ridden  in  on  a 
steer,  decorated  with  cow-bells;  and,  suddenly  rushing  out 
from  the  thicket  behind  the  only  "grocery"  in  town,  he 
plunged  into  the  ranks  with  such  a  clang  and  shout  as  to 
stampede  the  entire  company  for  a  moment.  As  the  occasion 
was  one  of  more  or  less  fun,  Jim  was  ordered  out,  his  steer 
turned  loose,  and  Jim  himself  was  told  to  get  up  the  old 
cannon,  brought  back  from  Mexico,  and  fire  it  after  the  drill 
was  over,  a  part  of  the  military  exercises  scrupulously  carried 
out  at  every  drill,  chiefly  to  impress  the  importance  of  the 
occasion  on  the  small  boys  and  "women  folks"  of  the  sur 
rounding  country.  The  company  had  been  coming  in  since 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 


45 


twelve  o'clock.  The  grocery,  nowadays  euphoniously  called 
the  saloon,  had  done  a  rushing  business.  Several  horse 
swaps  had  taken  place,  there  had  been  three  "quarter-horse 
races"  down  the  main  street  of  the  village,  and  a  fight  or  two 
was  not  omitted  from  the  regular  program.  Many  of  the 
company  had  ridden  in  on  brood  mares,  and  as  it  was  the 
spring  of  the  year  these  had  brought  their  colts  along  with 
them.  Each  colt  had  been  carefully  criticised  by  a  bunch  of 
judges,  while  its  proud  owner  enthusiastically  pointed  out  its 
fine  points  and  expatiated  on  its  breeding.  Finally,  the  com 
pany  had  all  assembled,  and  after  mounting,  Colonel  Posey 
advanced  towards  the  bunch,  exclaiming: 

"Fall  in  now,  gentlemen,  fall  in!  Two  erbreast  an'  set 
straight  in  the  saddle.  Git  in  quick  an'  turn  out  yer  toes/' 
and  he  rode  behind  the  bunch  of  men,  mares  and  mules. 

At  this  command  there  was  a  general  spurring  and  rush 
as  each  one  endeavored  to  get  into  line  with  military  prompt 
ness,  but  no  one  seemed  to  know  where  the  line  was  and  how 
to  get  into  it,  and  to  add  to  the  general  confusion,  the  colts 
got  mixed  up  and  rushed  around  neighing  for  their  respect 
ive  dams. 

"Colonel,"  said  Dick  Thompson,  who  was  mounted  on 
a  small  grey  mule,  "hadn't  these  here  colts  better  be  penned 
fust?  One  ov  'em  is  here  pesterin'  my  ole  mule  mighty,"  he 
remarked,  as  several  of  the  colts  in  the  general  confusion 
were  going  around  nudging  their  noses  under  the  flanks  of 
any  four-legged  beast  they  could  find. 

"A  great  idee,  Dick,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Gentlemen,  all 
them  that's  mounted  on  brood  mares  will  please  go  into 
Cooper's  stable  yard  and  shut  in  the  colts."  At  this,  for 
twenty  minutes  there  was  the  greatest  confusion  in  getting 
each  colt  to  follow  its  dam  into  the  stable  yard,  and  much 
more  in  slipping  the  dam  out  and  leaving  the  colt  behind; 
but  it  was  finally  accomplished. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel,  as  he  rode  around 


46  SONGS    AND     STORIES 

the  bunch  again,  "form  inter  two  straight  lines;  set  straight 
in  yer  saddles,  and  turn  out  yer  toes!  Yes,  gentlemen,  no 
foolin'  now.  Lay  erside  yer  pranks,  git  inter  line,  set 
straight" — riding  down  the  line  very  erect — "in  yer  saddles 
and  turn  out  yer — whoa,  Molly! — yer  toes.  Dick,  set  straight 
there,  won't  you?  Git  inter  line,  boys;  fall  inter  line!" 

"Colonel,  there  ain't  no  line  to  fall  into,"  said  Dick, 
chagrined  at  being  personally  mentioned  in  the  matter — 
"how  kin  a  feller  fall  into  a  thing  that  ain't?" 

"That's  about  so,  Dick,"  said  the  Colonel;  "you're  right. 
Here, Josh Giddens!" — seizingjosh's  horse  by  the  bit — "keep 
right  still.  Now,  boys,  form  side  and  side  to  Josh  Giddens. 
Don't  git  too  close,  now;  leave  room  to  use  your  saber  arm 
and  to  turn  out  yer  toes.  Here,  boys,  help  Dick  to  pull  that 
mule  into  line — dammer  mule,  I  say" — seeing  Dick's  mule 
holding  back  and  rolling  the  white  of  his  eyes  around  at  the 
crowd  on  each  side  of  him.  "That's  right;  now  form  a  second 
line  behind  this  one — good  ergin!  That's  er  good  platoon — 
hold  yer  hosses  still!  Stop  talkin'  in  ranks! — there,  now. 
gentlemen,  don't  bring  enny  more  touchous  horses  here— 
don't  do  it — war  means  killin',  but  it  don't  mean  gettin'  yer 
head  kicked  off  by  some  hoss  in  yer  own  line.  (This  on  ac 
count  of  a  gray  mare  letting  fly  both  heels  at  an  inquisitive 
mule  behind  her.)  Now,  gentlemen,  have  yer  formed  ?"- 
riding  down  the  line  and  inspecting  it. 

"Yes,  yes;  well,  that's  pritty  good,  pritty  good.  A  fine- 
looking  body  of  men — equal  to  any  I  saw  in  Mexico.  Now, 
gentlemen,  pay  strict  attention  to  the  commands — set  straight 
in  yer  saddles  and  turn  out  yer  toes — hold  yer  pieces  right — 
set  straight — look  square  to  the  front — turn  out  yer — ' 

Bang!!! 

This  discharge  came  from  the  old  cannon  which  Jim 
McHyde,  in  a  spirit  of  fun  and  backed  by  the  boys  of  the 
village,  had  drawn  up  under  an  oak  tree  in  the  rear  of  the 
company,  and,  having  loaded  it  with  a  half  pound  of  powder, 


FROM     TENNESSEE.  47 

and  waited  till  the  company  was  intently  interested  in  the 
Colonel's  instructions,  had  quietly  applied  a  red-hot  iron  to 
the  fuse  as  he  stood  behind  the  tree,  and  watched  the  effect 
the  discharge  would  have  on  the  company  in  front. 

And  it  was  startling.  All  were  country  horses,  unused  to 
battle's  grim  roar,  and  as  the  fearful  discharge  thundered  in 
their  rear,  many  whirled  round  to  face  the  dread  monste-, 
but  the  most  of  them  were  seized  with  a  keen  desire  to  get 
out  of  the  way.  Dick's  gray  mule  shot  forward  as  if  he  had 
been  the  projectile  itself,  and  many  of  the  others  followed 
suit.  The  Colonel's  mare,  much  to  her  owner's  disgust, 
whirled,  and,  fixing  both  eyes  and  ears  on  the  cloud  of 
smoke,  seemed  afraid  to  turn  her  back  and  run,  but  imme 
diately  began  to  back  off  down  the  road  with  surprising  agil 
ity,  leaving  her  rider  powerless  to  stop  her.  When  fifty  yards 
down  the  road  she  concluded  she  was  far  enough  to  turn 
tail  without  being  devoured  by  the  unknown  monster;  so, 
seeing  a  convenient  corner,  she  suddenly  whirled,  nearly 
unseating  her  rider,  and  made  frantic  efforts  to  get  away. 
It  took  twenty  minutes  to  restore  order  and  place  Jim 
McHyde  under  arrest,  which  the  Colonel  did  without  delay, 
punctuated  with  language  more  impressive  than  elegant.  As 
the  only  safe  place  was  the  rear  end  of  the  bar-room,  forty 
of  the  company  immediately  volunteered  their  services  to 
take  the  luckless  Jim  there  and  keep  him  till  further  orders. 
Two  were  detailed,  and  Jim  was  forced  to  "treat"  them  on 
arrival. 

The  arrest  of  Jim  satisfied  all  parties,  and  they  again 
formed  in  lines. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  colonel,  "let's  all  be  quiet. 
The  unexpected  very  often  happens  in  war,  an'  we  must  be 
prepared.  But  the  man  who  violates  the  rules  always  gets  his 
jes'  dues."  (Here  the  company  looked  longingly  toward  the 
bar-room,  where  Jim  and  his  guards  could  be  plainly  seen 
taking  a  three-fingered  drink,  and  they  were  not  fully  con- 


48 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


vinced  that  Jim's  punishment  was  a  just  reward.)  "But  let 
us  to  duty,"  he  added.  "Now,  I  am  fust  goin'  to  drill  you  in 
the  use  of  the  saber,  and  all  them  that's  got  guns  will  bring 
'cm  to  a  half  cock."  (Here  there  was  a  general  clicking  down 
the  rank.  Many  of  them  had,  contrary  to  cavalry  rules, 
brought  their  flint  and  steel  muskets,  and  Ab  Perkins'  had 
only  one  notch  on  it,  it  was  so  old,  and  when  at  full  cock 
the  steel  was  almost  below  the  stock  itself.)  "A  half-cock, 
Mr.  Perkins,  if  you  please,"  said  the  Colonel;  "lower  your 
hammer  to  the  first  notch." 

"Kurnel,  my  ole  gun  ain't  got  but  one  notch,"  said  Ab, 
and  he  added,  with  dry  humor:  "She  goes  to  h — 1  after  fire, 
but  when  she  gits  it  she  comes  back  with  er  bucketful." 

At  this  wit  of  Ab  the  entire  company  broke  out  into  a 
laugh,'  in  which  the  Colonel  joined,  and  as  his  gun  had  so  bad 
a  reputation  and  visited  places  of  questionable  resort,  Ab 
was  allowed  to  take  it  out  of  ranks  and  go  and  help  keep 
Jim  McHyde  straight. 

"Kur'nel,"  said  Sam  Johnston,  a  small,  red-headed  war 
rior,  who  was  almost  too  full  to  sit  straight  in  the  saddle, 
"don't — you  think — sump'n's  wrong  with — my  old — gun?" 
(holding  it  up,  cocking  and  recocking  it  with  a  most  puzzled 
look  on  his  face).  "She  'peers — to — click — pow'ful — ku'is — 
to  me." 

"Yes,  Sam,"  said  the  Colonel,  who  recognized  the  fact 
that  Sam  and  his  gun  were  both  too  heavily  loaded,  "and 
v  -•  may  both  go  off,"  an  order  he  was  not  long  carrying  out, 
but  followed  with  the  taunts  of  the  company  and  such  re 
marks  as  "Sit  straight  in  yer  saddle,  Sam!"  "Turn  out  your 
toes,  Sam!"  and  "Look  at  ole  wool  hat  an'  yeller  briches  on 
a  billy  goat!"  But  Sam  headed  for  the  grocery  and  rode  on. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  commander,  "as  we've  got 
rid  of  all  them  that  can't  drill  properly  an'  the  rest  of  us  is 
gentlemen  and  horsemen,  let's  get  down  to  business.  Now, 
as  captain  of  this  mounted  cavalry  company,  it  is  my  duty — 


FROM     TENNESSEE.  49 

in  fact,  I  am  commanded  by  the  laws  of  Tennessee" — here 
he  pulled  out  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  read:  'To  properly 
drill  the  same  in  all  the  requirements  of  cavalry  drill  and 
practice.'  "Now.  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel  as  he  rode 
slowly  down  the  line  and  seemed  at  a  loss  to  know  exactly 
where  to  start,  "the  fust,  an',  in  fact,  the  only  rule  that  I  ever 
heard  of  in  the  Mexican  war  was  the  one  that  we  useter  have 
an'  practice.  I  never  read  it  out  of  a  book,  but  somehow  or 
other  we  all  kinder  centered  to  it,  an'  its  the  only  rule  I  know 
of.  I  kin  give  you  that  rule  in  er  few  words,  for  it's  all  I 
know,"  he  said  apologetically,  "erbout  cavalry,  an'  it's  jes' 
this:  Set  straight  in  yer  saddle,  turn  out  yer  toes,  an'  ride  at 
the  enemy!"  and  he  emphasized  the  rule,  as  he  repeated  it 
slowly,  by  shaking  his  index  finger  and  gravely  gesticulating. 

"Colonel,  don't  we  have  to  arm  and  mount  fust?" 

This  question  came  from  the  ranks — from  Major  Peeler 
— a  gentleman  about  the  age  of  the  Colonel,  who  had  also 
served  in  the  Mexican  war  and  who  thought  he  knew  quite  as 
much  of  military  matters  as  the  Colonel.  Out  of  ranks  he 
was  never  happier  than  when  telling  of  the  various  battles 
he  was  engaged  in;  in  ranks  he  took  every  occasion  to  cor 
rect  any  errors  the  Colonel  might  make,  much  to  that  gen 
tleman's  disgust.  In  fact,  he  had  been  a  candidate  against 
the  Colonel  for  the  captaincy  of  this  company,  but  being  self- 
important  and  arrogant  and  a  poor  "mixer,"  he  had  met  the 
fate  of  all  such  in  this  free  country  and  been  left  in  the  ranks. 

"Armed  and  mounted  fust!"  exclaimed  the  Colonel  hot 
ly.  "Why,  we're  supposed  to  be  mounted  or  else  we'd  be 
nothing  but  infantry!  Look  er  here,  major,"  said  the  Colonel 
with  a  good  deal  of  spirit,  "ef  you  want  to  drill  this  company, 
sir,  I'll  send  in  my  resignation." 

"Go  on,  Colonel,  go  on!"  shouted  the  company,  who 
were  beginning  to  get  tired.  "Of  course  you're  right. 
Cal'v'ry  bound  to  be  mounted!  Ennybody  knows  that.  Go 
on,  don't  resign,  drill  us  and  let's  go  home." 


5° 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


"Well,  then,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel,  calming  down 
at  this  manifestation  of  his  popularity  with  the  boys,  "as  I 
was  sayin',  the  only  rule  I  know  is  to  set  straight  in  the 
saddle,  turn  out  yer  toes  and  ride  at  the  enemy.  An'  right 
in  that  rule  is  where  we  got  the  bes*  of  the  Mexicans;  for 
their  rule,  es  fur  es  I  was  able  to  see,  was  to  hump  up  them 
selves  on  their  grass-bellied  ponies  an'  git  up  and  git.  Yes, 
gentlemen,  by  knowin'  an'  enforcin'  this  rule  we  whipped  the 
dirty  greasers  in  every  battle,  an'  by  follerin'  it  to-morrer," 
he  added,  rising  in  his  stirrups  and  shaking  his  saber,  "we 
kin  whip  the  whole  world."  Here  the  company  yelled  out  its 
applause  in  a  long,  dismal  howl,  which,  when  it  had  died 
away,  a  squeaking  voice  shouted  in  the  further  rank,  "Whoo- 
raw  for  our  rule  an'  Jeems  K.  Polk." 

"So  that's  the  fust  rule,"  said  the  Colonel;  "now,  how  to 
do  this  is  the  next;"  for  the  Colonel  saw  that  as  he  had  but 
few  rules  he  must  try  to  spread  out  what  he  did  have  as  far 
as  possible. 

"First,  set  straight  in  yer  saddle,  like  you  see  me" — riding 
down  the  line  with  his  shoulders  thrown  uncomfortably  back. 
"Yer  coat-buttons  square  between  yer  horse's  ears,  yer  left 
hand  holdin'  yer  reins,  yer  right  graspin'  yer  sword,  with  the 
pint  elevated  about  forty-five  degrees,  yer  toes  turned  well 
out,  so!"And  he  rode  down  the  line  in  great  style,  at  sight  of 
which  every  man  straightened  himself  up  as  near  like  the 
Colonel  as  possible. 

"Second,  gentlemen,  you  must  ride  at  the  enemy.  Now, 
nt,  gentlemen,  is  a  very  little  word,  but  it  is  bigger  than  a 
bombshell  in  battle,  and  means  more  than  everything  else;  in 
fact,  gentlemen,  it's  about  the  chief  thing  of  this  important 
rule,  although  it  appears  so  small.  Ef  you'd  leave  out  all  the 
other  words  in  this  rule,  and  jes'  git  into  yer  saddles  an'  say 
at  'em!  and  then  do  it,  you'd  come  mighty  nigh  knowin'  all 
the  rules  of  war.  Don't  gallop  around  nor  ride  about,  then 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  51 

stop,  but  at,  straight  at,  and  do  it  dam  fast,  to  keep  yer 
courage  up!" 

"How  about  making  a  detour  and  a  flank  movement?" 
inquired  the  irrepressible  Major  Peeler. 

"Detours  and  flank  movements,"  repeated  the  Colonel, 
sarcastically.  "Them's  mighty  high-soundin'  words,  Major, 
but  they  ain't  worth  er  dam  in  war.  Where,"  said  he,  get 
ting  excited  and  waving  his  sword,  "did  we  ever  make  enny 
detours  in  the  Mexican  war?  The  only  detour  I  ever  saw,'' 
he  thundered  with  withering  sarcasm,  "was  when  a  piece  of 
an  Alabama  and  Tennessee  regiment  made  a  detour  after  a 
Mexican  goose  roast  one  night,  an'  got  cut  off  from  the  regu 
lar  army;  they  came  detouring  back  to  camp  the  next  mornin' 
with  a  pack  of  greasers  at  their  heels — the  only  time  in  the 
whole  war  that  enny  of  our  troops  showed  their  heels  to  a 
Mexican." 

This  last  was  a  home  thrust,  for  it  was  well  known  in  the 
village  that  the  Major  had  been  the  leader  of  that  unfortunate 
company  that  went  off  on  the  raid  and  came  home  so  precipi 
tately. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel,  "I  have  told  you  all 
the  rules  an'  we'll  now  put  'em  into  practice.  We'll  now  pro 
ceed  to  march;  but  we  won't  go  no  further" — apologetically, 
since  some  of  the  men  began  to  grumble  about  moving  at 
all — "than  the  black-oak  stump  at  the  cross-roads  an'  back 
ergin.  Now,  when  I  say  'forward,'  you  mustn't  go  forward, 
but  only  prepare  for  it;  but  when  I  say  'march/  why  jes'  spur 
up  an'  walk  off."  Here  there  was  a  visible  commotion  in 
ranks,  as  several  of  the  men  had  been  sitting  sideways  in  the 
saddle  during  a  part  of  this  long  discourse  and  they  began  to 
get  into  proper  position.  "Now,  let  us  try,"  resumed  the 
Colonel. 

"Forward" — waiting  a  few  moments — "hold  on!  hold  on! 
slop!  stop!!  Don't  you  recollect  I  said  you  mustn't  go  till  I 
said  march?"  This  to  the  men  eager  to  get  off,  and  starting 


52  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

off  in  every  kind  of  time  at  the  command,  forward.  "Now, 
git  inter  line  ergin;  it  looks  like  you'll  never  learn  ennything. 
Why,  dammit,  gentlemen,  you  almost  make  me  swear!" 

After  much  confusion  they  again  got  into  line. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "please  recollect  an* 
don't  forgit.  Be  very  careful.  When  I  say  march,  why,  move 
off;  if  I  say  trot,  why,  jes'  trot;  if  I  say  gallop,  why,  jes'  gal 
lop.  This  milertary  business  ain't  nothin'  but  common  sense 
rigged  up  with  a  sword  an'  a  cocked  hat.  Everything  is 
plain,  an'  don't  forgit  it,  nor  to  keep  yer  toes  turned  out!" 

"We  won't,  Colonel,"  came  from  the  company.  "Do  let 
us  git  off — it's  nearly  sundown." 

"Well,  then,  forward,  march!"  and  after  a  good  deal  of 
spurring  and  clucking  some  of  the  company  moved  off  and 
the  others  gradually  followed  suit,  a  sight  to  behold,  since 
every  animal  in  it  had  a  gait  peculiar  to  its  breed  and  the 
wear  and  tear  of  the  plow.  Some  went  fast,  some  slow;  some 
paced  and  others  trotted.  The  rear  rank  ran  into  the  front 
line,  while  the  flanks  became  detached  from  the  main  body 
and  struck  off  in  a  separate  bunch,  headed  for  the  bar-room. 
The  rest  of  the  line  was  in  a  zig-zag  condition,  and  its  path 
would  have  been  the  line  of  a  worm  fence  moving  to  the  gate 
as  an  objective  point.  At  this  point  some  one  left  the  gate  of 
Cooper's  stable  yard  open,  and  the  colts  came  tearing  out, 
whinnying  and  rushing  into  lines,  hunting  for  their  respect 
ive  dams.  These  came  to  a  dead  halt,  with  many  signs  of 
satisfaction  and  motherly  proceedings. 

Now,  the  Colonel  was  a  man  of  wonderful  resources  and 
intuitive  forethought.  He  saw  that  the  military  would  have 
to  succumb  to  the  civil  unless  something  was  done,  and  that 
very  quickly,  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  the  former.  It  was 
evident  that  Mars  must  give  way  to  Venus,  and  that  without 
the  formality  of  ceremony.  To  one  less  gifted  than  the  Colo 
nel,  the  day's  drill  would  have  ended  in  confusion  and  dis 
grace.  Not  so  with  him.  Riding  to  the  front,  with  a  look  on 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  53 

his  face  as  if  he  had  expected  all  this  and  it  was  a  part  of  his 
program,  he  issued  a  command  never  before  heard  in  military 
science  —  nay,  not  even  in  the  Mexican  war.  Rising  in  his 
stirrups,  he  shouted,  in  his  deepest  voice: 

"Halt,  and  suckle  colts!" 

This  seemed  to  please  everybody,  including  the  colts, 
after  which  the  company  took  a  drink  around  and  rode  off 
to  their  homes,  thoroughly  satisfied  they  knew  all  that  was 
necessary  for  cavalry  to  learn. 


THE  FLAG  OF  GREEN'S  BRIGADE. 
(Louisiana  Building,  World's  Fair  Grounds.) 

OWHEN   I  stood  before  the    tatter'd    flag    of    Green's 
brigade, 

My  heart  beat  martial  music  for  the  thoughts  my  spirit  made. 
I  saw  the  old-time  flint-locks  flash  their  deadly  disks  of  flame, 
I  cheered  the  old-time  ragged  lines  that  marched  in  Free 

dom's  name, 
I  wept  o'er  old-time  gaping  wounds  in  manly  breasts  dis 

played, 
And  dying  eyes  that    last    looked    on  the  flag  of  Green's 

brigade. 

O,  when  I  stood  before  the  faded  flag  of  Green's  brigade, 
I  saw  the  blood  of  heroes  in  its  every  tint  and  shade. 
'Neath  Saratoga's  steel-cold  stars  it  led  our  charging  line 
And   hurled   back    Freedom's    challenge    from    the   guns    of 

Brandywine, 

At  Germantown  and  Kettle  Creek  and  Camden's  leaden  rain  — 
Till  Yorktown  found  it  torn  and  shorn  but  still  without  a 

stain  ! 


54 

'Twas  this  that  led  the  tide  that  swept  our  craft  from  out  the 

gloom 
And  hung,  like  Hope's  blight  banner,  o'er  the  portals  of  the 

tomb; 

And,  flaming  like  a  flambeau  held  in  Vict'ry's  mailed  hand, 
It  blazed  the  way  for  brightest  day  throughout  the  strug 

gling  land. 
Around  it  flocked  the  Southron  while  the  bright  beams  of 

his  blade 
Gleamed  out  like  stars  of  midnight  'round  the  flag  of  Green's 

brigade. 

O,  as  I  stand  before  the  faded  flag  of  Green's  brigade, 
Methinks  I  hear  the  thunder  of  the  Future's  cannonade! 
Methinks  our  lines  are  marching  —  marching  to  the  same  old 

call— 

And  some  are  blue  and  some  are  gray  —  the  old  flag  over  all. 
And  Gettysburg  and  Bull  Run  now  have  met,  both  undis 

mayed, 
To  fight  their  country's  battles  'round  the  flag  of  Green's 

brigade. 


THE  HILLS. 

I  KNOW  not  why  I  love  the  cloud-lined  hills, 
Stretching  away  so   faint  in  trembling  rills 
Of  smoke-blue  ether.     Far  away,  they  seem 
Like  fixed  billows  of  the  ocean  —  like  the  dream 
Of  the  sea,  when  in  his  mad  and  wild  unrest 
He  longs  to  sleep  upon  his  earth-bride's  breast. 
Transfixed,  his  waves  —  in  blue  and  brown  they  stand, 
The  image  of  the  ocean  on  the  land. 
The  trees  that  tower  in  the  twilight  far 
Are  masts  of  bannered  ships  with  naked  spar, 


PROM    TENNESSEE.  55 

While  o'er  the  crest,  like  light-house  lamp,  shines  out  the 
evening  star. 

And  yet  anear,  I  know  not  why  to  me 

They  seem  to  speak  of  friendship  and  the  glee 

Of  youth  time.    Orchards,  purpling  'mid  October  days, 

And  grapes  that  climb  to  kiss  the  sun's  last  rays. 

Breezes  that  turn  the  sunflower's  saffron  sail 

And  billows  the  rip'ning  grain  where  calls  the  quail. 

Pools  that  gleam  to  stud  the  moss-grown  front  of  rocks, 

And  cooling  forest  depths  where  rest  the  flocks. 

The  hills!     The  hills!     Towering  above  the  valley's  sordid 

clod, 

Lifting  the  earth's  dead  level  half  way  up  to  God, 
Yet  holding  all  in  sweet  communion  with  the  mother  sod. 

Yon  mountain,  capped  with  its  eternal  snow, 

Scorning  all  sweetness — e'en  the  soft  clouds  below — 

It  hath  no  charm  for  me.    There  is  no  love  there, 

No  voice  of  birds,   nor  fruit-perfumed  air, 

Nor  low,  soft  song  from  bivouaced  tents  of  hay — 

The  harvest  reapers'  song  at  close  of  day. 

Alone  it  stands,  symbol  of  dearth  and  might 

Of  naked  power  and  grandeur's  royal  right 

To  look  down  on  the  tenderer  things  of  earth 

And  scorn  the  sunshine  love  that  gave  them  birth, 

And  blight,  as  with  a  shroud  of  frost,  their  unassuming  mirth. 

So  may  my  life  be — like  the  hills.     Not  high 
My  hopes  and  plans,  but  midway  'twixt  the  sky 
And  stagnant  land.     So  may  my  friends  be, 
Not  like  mountains  towering  o'er  the  sea, 
Wrapt  in  the  cold  splendor  of  a  world  apart — 
With  granite  thoughts  and  barren  boulder  heart — 
But  high  enough  to  tempt  my  gaze  above 
And  low  enough  to  catch  the  sunshine  of  my  love. 


56  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

So  may  my  death  be,  like  the  hill,  sun-riven  — 
Holding  its  last  sweet  beam  from  earth  to  catch  the  first 
from  heaven. 


BY  THE  LITTLE  BIG-HORN. 

(A  Montana  paper  is  authority  for  the  statement  that  a 
half-breed  Sioux,  who  had  served  as  scout  for  Gen.  Custer, 
was  living  in  that  State  a  few  years  ago,  and  claimed  to  be 
the  only  survivor  of  Custer's  last  fight.  In  the  confusion  this 
half-breed  mingled  with  the  Sioux  and  escaped  the  massacre 
by  reason  of  close  tribal  resemblance.  He  relates  how  eight 
horsemen  of  the  Seventh  Regiment  cut  through  the  Sioux 
and  gained  the  foot-hills  beyond,  where  they  could  easily 
have  joined  Reno  and  escaped,  had  they  not  looked  down 
and  seen  the  desperate  strait  in  which  their  General  was 
placed.  To  the  astonishment  of  all,  they  shot  their  own 
horses,  and,  forming  into  line,  marched  back  to  die  with 
Custer.) 

DOWN  to  their  death  in  the  valley  of  silence> 
Down  where  the  Sioux's  treach'rous  ranks  lay  at  bay, 
•  Down  till  the  yellow  waves  turned  into  crimson 
The  old  Seventh  rode  on  that  ill-fated  day. 
"Forward,  the  Seventh!    Charge  through  the  Sioux  center!" 

'Twas  Custer  who  said  it  —  he  rode  on  the  right  — 
His  long  yellow  hair  was  the  banner  they  followed 

And  he  sat  his  black  horse  like  the  Centaur  of  fight! 

Down  to  their  death  in  that  somber-hued  valley, 

They  rode  through  the  Sioux  with  carbine  and  Colt  — 

The  reins  in  their  teeth  and  the  glint  of  their  sabers 
Making  the  flash  for  their  lead  thunderbolt. 

"Forward  the  Seventh  —  Guide  right!     To  the  center!" 
'Twas  Custer  who  said  it.  as  onward  he  sped, 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  57 

Spurring  his  steed  where  the  eagle's  grey  feathers 
Rose  o'er  the  crest  of  the  billows  of  red. 

Out  from  that  valley,  that  valley  of  carnage, 

Eight  horsemen  have  cut  through  the  ranks  of  the  foe; 
They  gain  the  bold  heights  and  safely  look  downward, 

Down  on  the  scene  of  this  new  Alamo. 
For  there,  his  dead  steed  as  a  breastwork  before  him, 

With  the  glory  of  battle  ablaze  in  his  eye, 
Answering  it  back  in  flash  of  his  pistols, 

Our  prince  of  the  saddle  has  stopped  there — to  die! 

Again  and  again  roll  the  billows  of  fury 

To  be  shattered  again  as  the  wave  on  the  rock; 
Again  and  again  melts  the  line  of  the  Seventh 

Beneath  the  Sioux  bullet  and  Wahpeton  shock. 
But  see!  from  the  heights  where  their  good  steeds  have  clam 
bered, 

Out-footing  Sioux  pony  in  fleet-winged  flight, 
The  eight  have  dismounted — one  glance  tells  the  story — 

They  shoulder  their  rifles  and  dress  to  the  right. 

They  hear  the  wild  whoop  of  the  blood-madden'd  savage, 

They  see  their  brave  comrades  go  down  in  the  brunt, 
They  hear  through  the  din  the  calm  voice  of  brave  Custer — 

A  breastwork  of  dead  he  has  made  in  his  front! 
"Attention,  squad!"  'twas  the  sergeant  who  said  it, 

"Fours  right  into  line — our  duty  lies  back!" 
Then  quick  from  his  belt  came  a  blue-gleaming  barrel, 

And  the  steed  that  had  saved  him  lay  dead  in  its  track! 

Back  to  their  death  in  that  valley  of  slaughter 

Eight  horsemen  march  down  on  the  hosts  of  the  Sioux, 

Not  a  trumpet  gave  note — not  the  gleam  of  a  banner — 
'Tis  only  a  duty  they  march  down  to  do. 

"Forward,   squad!"   said  the   sergeant  immortal — 


58  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

"Charge  straight  for  the  center  —  to  Custer  once  more, 
And  Time,  in  his  pitiless  flight,  for  a  moment 

Looked  down  on  a  sight  he  had  ne'er  seen  before. 

Up  in  that  valley,  that  sweetly  green  valley, 

O,  raise  them  a  monument  proudly  in  air, 
Telling  the  story  as  ages  grow  hoary 

What  American  soldiers  for  duty  will  dare. 
High  on  the  shaft  in  the  glint  of  the  sunlight 

Let  Ouster's  proud  figure,  heroic,  stand  high, 
And  grouped  just  beneath,  with  immortelle  wreath, 

The  eight  nameless  horsemen  who  never  shall  die. 


TO  A  MOCKING  BIRD  IN  THE  PINE-TOP. 


B 


IRD  of  the  South — sweet  songster! 
Brighter  than  the  evening  star 
That  beams  above  thy  perch  afar 
Thy  song  pours  out,  its  every  bar 

Music'd  with  melody. 
Singing  in  the  pine-top  green, 
Of  all  the  feathered  tribe  the  queen— 
A  rising,  falling,  rippling  sheen 

Of  flowing  harmony. 


Lute  of  the  South — our  Southland! 

Pouring  from  thine  em'ral  throne 
On  the  pine  tree's  top-most  cone 
Notes  by  mortals  never  known, 

Of  sweet  simplicity. 

What  sunbeams  made  that  twinkling  \rill? 
What  zephyr  tuned  that  throat,  until 
Its  life  and  breath  and  spirit  fill 

Thy  soul  of  poesy? 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  59 

Mimic  of  the  South — sly  warbler, 

Hast  thou  caught  the  firefly's  glow 

In  the  sparkle  of  thy  flow, 

Or  gathered  from  the  sunset's  bow 

Thy  shafts  of  rhapsody? 
Magnolia  blossoms  in  the  breeze — 
Art  thou  singing  now  of  these 
While  filling  Heaven's  purpling  frieze 
With  incense  musical? 

In  that  calm  note,  soft  and  low, 

Dost  thou  see  the  bayou's  flow 
Bespangled  with  the  stars  that  grow 

From  water  lilies? 

Or  up  the  green  decked,  wooded  hill 
Where  speeds  the  brook  to  water  mill, 
Is  that  jingling  note  its  trill 

Down  ravine  rushing? 

Deeper,  sweeter  flows  the  stream 

All  merry  mad  with  glide  and  gleam 
Until  the  very  woodlands  seem 

To  reel  with  euphony. 
Softly  sweet,  'neath  paling  dome, 
Thou  singest  now  of  that  true  home, 
Where  we  shall  weep  no  more,  nor  roam, 

But  rest  forever. 

Listening  to  the  revery  note 

From  thy  moonlit  perch,  there  float 
Tales  of  other  days  remote, 
Mem'ries  of  chivalry. 
Tales  that  tell  of  times  agone — 
The  cotton's  banner  'mid  the  corn — 


6o  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Of  Charity  that's  ever  born 
'Mid  peace  and  plenty. 

Changing  now  to  deeper  tone 

Comes  a  war-note  from  thy  throne, 
And  sweetness  for  a  season's  flown 

For  martial  measures. 
Short  and  quick  with  bugle  thrill 
The  war-drum  echoes  in  thy  trill — 
The  fife's  fierce  scream  and  trumpet  fill 

Thy  clarion  melody. 

Silently — a  march  in  Saul — 

Thou  changest  now  to  fun'ral  pall — 
Thou  mournest  now  for  those  who  fall 

Wearing  the  gray. 

Ay,  weep;  for  in  the  rush  of  wrong 
That  followed  with  the  alien  throng, 
Thy  people  needed  every  song 

Thy  heart  could  give. 

Hark!  another  note  we  hear, 

'Tis  the  plowboy's  whistle  clear, 
As  morning  finds  him  with  his  gear, 

To  yoke  prosperity. 
Then,  as  up  the  sunshine  gleams 
Our  night  of  dread  melts  into  dreams 
Of  harvest  fields  and  peaceful  streams 

And  barns  of  plenty. 

Bird  of  -the  South — dear  songster, 

Sing  in  the  pine-top,  ever  sing, 
Cause  all  the  southern  air  to  ring, 
Music  and  evergreens  o'er  us  fling 

And  teach  the  religion  of  harmony. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  61 

Sing  in  the  pine-top,  in  that  tree, 
The  emblem  of  eternity  — 
Sing  'till  thy  people,  hearing  thee, 
Shall  live  for  immortality. 


THE  TRUE  SINGER. 

I  STARTED  out  for  my  usual  drive  the  other  even 
ing  and  the  first  thing  I  drove  into  was  a  stratum  —  no,  a 
flood  of  melody.  I  pulled  up  quickly  and  looked  all  around. 
I  could  hear  it  but  I  could  not  see  the  musician.  It  seemed 
to  come  from  everywhere.  I  knew  the  rascal  that  was  making 
it,  and  the  white  oak  tree  he  was  in,  but  the  mocking  bird, 
like  all  true  singers,  is  so  unpretentious  in  his  make-up,  and  so 
near  the  color  of  nature  generally,  that  I  could  scarcely  tell 
him  from  the  big,  honest  limb  he  was  sitting  on.  And  I  knew 
well  enough,  too,  why  his  music  seemed  to  come  from  every 
where  —  he  drew  it  from  everywhere  and  he  never  pours  it  out 
twice  in  the  same  direction.  Ah,  he  is  the  true  singer! 
Watch  him  just  now  a  minute  and  see.  While  his  little  gray 
throat  swells  and  puffs  and  rolls  like  miniature  bellows,  and 
his  tiny  eyes,  "in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling,"  dart  about  here  and 
there,  now  at  the  earth  and  now  at  the  heaven  above  him, 
notice  how  his  little  head  moves  from  side  to  side,  pouring  his 
song  in  every  direction,  and  varying  it  to  suit  every  new  and 
beautiful  sight  that  flashes  across  the  retina  of  the  tiny  sen 
tinels  in  his  eyes.  It  is  almost  comical  to  see  how  earnest 
he  is  —  not  to  sing,  but  to  sing  of  some  new  thing.  And  so 
he  "doth  glance  from  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth," 
and  involuntarily  he  pours  out  the  impression  that  he  sees. 

"You  are  the  true  singer,  old  fellow,"  I  said,  as  my  heart 
welled  up  at  the  lesson  he  was  teaching  me,  and  I  pulled  of? 
my  hat  in  his  presence.  "You  are  the  true  singer.  Spring  is 
glorious,  but  you  are  not  singing  of  spring  until  your  spring 


62  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

song  is  a  spring  joke  among  the  other  birds.  The  heavens 
are  blue  but  you  don't  dwell  on  them  always.  The  fields  are 
green  and  sunshiny  and  beautiful,  but  only  a  glint  of  them 
has  crept  into  your  music.  Your  mate  died  in  the  terrible 
freeze  of  last  winter,  and  that  tender  flutter  of  crape  in  your 
song  was  just  enough  to  draw  us  to  you.  Had  you  hung  out 
your  black  flag  as  some  folks  do  who  imagine  they  are  mourn 
ing  thereby  for  the  dead,  or  had  you  poured  your  misery 
between  me  and  the  sunshine,  I  would  ride  on  and  teil  you  to 
go  and  mate  with  a  blackbird.  But  O,  what  a  singer  you  are! 
A  little  of  the  fields,  a  gleam  from  the  air,  a  glint  from  the 
sunshine  and  a  glow  of  the  skies.  A  memory  of  a  dead  love, 
a  tiny  bit  of  mocking  humor,  a  quaint  shaft  of  musical  satire, 
a  withering  take-off  on  some  cat  bird  who  thinks  he,  too. 
is  a  singer  and  has  tried  to  imitate  you,  and  a  jolly  laugh  at 
the  foibles  of  man.  Twinkles,  jests,  raptures,  dreams;  dances, 
songs,  brooks,  flowers;  sermons,  poems,  music,  stars — and 
all  of  it — heaven! 

And  before  I  had  time  to  tire,  he  dropped  off  the  limb 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  singing  all  the  time,  and,  sweeping 
in  long  curves  just  over  my  head,  he  flew  up  the  shaded 
pike  till  his  variations  died  away  in  the  distance. 

/•H-H 

FIRST  MONDAY  IN  TENNESSEE. 

LAST  Monday  was  "First  Monday"  in  Tennessee,  and  if 
you  have  ever  been  in  a  Tennessee  town  on  that  event 
ful  day  in  April,  you  will  know  what  it  means  without  any 
further  description.  I  hope  you  have,  because  it  cannot  be 
accurately  described  except  by  sight — and  the  looker  on,  to 
do  it  justice,  should  have  as  many  eyes  lying  around  loose 
upon  him  and  decking  his  terminal  facilities,  as  the  famous 
Argus  of  old.  For  this  is  the  day  of  the  year  to  the  average 
citizen  of  the  Volunteer  State.  On  that  day,  every  owner  of 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  63 

a  lordly  stallion,  every  obstreperous  breeder  of  a  dulcet- 
toned  Jack,  every  proud  possessor  of  a  rantankerous  bull, 
with  clay  on  his  horns  and  cockleburrs  in  his  tail  (I  am  re 
ferring  to  the  bull,  of  course),  is  expected  to  be  out  with  his 
family  and  his  friends  to  show  the  kind  of  live  stock  on  which 
he  has  pinned  his  faith.  And  they  are  all  there. 

Tennessee  was  admitted  into  the  Union  June  i,  1/96,  and 
so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn,  this  time-honored  day 
was  admitted  with  her.  In  fact,  I  think  it  was  tacitly  under 
stood  at  the  time,  that,  whether  the  State  obtained  certain 
representatives  in  Congress  or  not,  whether  the  boundary 
ended  with  the  Mississippi  or  the  Tennessee,  whether  the  In 
dian  lands  should  be  bought  up  or  not,  all  of  these  might 
be  decided  as  the  National  Congress  should  decree;  but  if 
"First  Monday"  couldn't  come  in,  in  the  language  of  old 
Hickory,  "By  the  eternal,  boys,  we'll  stay  out  of  the  little  old 
Union  till  she  grows  big  enough  to  take  in  our  First  Mon 
day."  But,  happily,  no  opposition  was  offered,  and  to-day 
Tennesseans  would  fight  for  "First  Monday"  quicker  than 
they  would  for  the  privilege  of  brewing  the  mountain  corn 
juice  under  the  shadowy  clifts  of  the  Big  Smokey. 

For  what,  indeed,  would  life  be  worth  to  the  horse-loving 
Tennessean,  if  deprived  of  the  privilege  of  showing  off,  on  the 
first  Monday  of  each  April,  his  pacing  stallion,  decked  with 
enough  red  blankets  to  cover  the  nakedness  of  darkest  Africa, 
and  with  halter  and  reins  suffi  iently  strong  to  anchor  a  man- 
of-war  at  sea?  Bonaparte,  crossing  the  Alps  on  his  restless 
war-horse  (as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  mule,  the  chiefest 
product  of  middle  Tennessee,  but  we  use  "restless  war-horse" 
for  poetical  effect),  and  looking  down  upon  the  plains  of  Italy, 
was  not  so  proud  and  happy  as  is  the  average  Tennessean  in 
the  horse  parade  around  the  Court  House  square,  holding  his 
mettlesome  roan  pacer  in  check  and  proudly  proclaiming  to 
the  gaping  crowd  around  him:  "Yes,  boys,  this  is  a  Tom 
Hal!" 

"First  Monday"  is  founded  on  a  simple  and  beautiful  cus- 


64  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

torn  so  old  that  its  origin  is  lost  in  the  haze  of  those  who 
came  first  over  the  mountains  to  settle  in  the  beautiful  Wau- 
taga  valley.  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  look  up  this  matter 
and  get  at  the  origin  of  it.  And  you  will  never  guess,  gentle 
reader,  how  it  really  started.  Be  not  surprised,  then,  when  I 
solemnly  proclaim  to  you  that  the  festive  ground-hog  is  the 
father  of  the  whole  business — the  ground-hog  with  his  in 
comparable  weather  bureau  department! 

"Pray  explain  yourself,"  I  hear  you  say.  "How  could  so 
simple  an"  animal  as  a  ground-hog  originate  such  a  time- 
honored  custom  as  an  annual  stock  parade  on  'First  Mon 
day?'  " 

It  is  simple  enough.  To  begin  with,  Tennessee  has  al 
ways  banked  on  the  ground-hog  as  a  weather  prophet — the 
Tennessee  Ground-Hog  Weather  Department  is  far  older 
than  Uncle  Sam's,  and  I  might  as  well  add,  far  more  reliable. 
In  the  Tennessee  department  the  ground-hog  is  the  chief 
of  the  bureau;  he  makes  but  one  prophecy  a  year  and  he 
never  misses  it;  whereas  the  bureau  at  Washington  makes  one 
every  day  and  generally  retires  at  night  with  the  sin  of  Ana 
nias  tacked  to  its  official  skirts,  predicting  rain  on  the  thresh- 
hold  of  a  Pharaoh  famine,  and  preparing  us  for  a  "long,  dry 
drought"  about  the  time  the  heavens  declare  the  curtain 
will  now  arise  on  the  Noah  and  the  Ark  act. 

But  what  about  the  ground-hog?  It  is  plain  enough.  On 
the  second  day  of  February  he  emerges  from  his  hole  in  the 
ground  to  see  if  he  can  cast  a  shadow.  If  he  can  cast  a 
shadow  he  solemnly  goes  back  into  his  hole  to  remain  six 
full  weeks — which  is  his  way  of  declaring  that  "bad  weather 
and  hell  ginerally  is  gwinter  be  to  pay  till  de  fuss  Monday 
in  April."  But  if  the  sky  be  cloudy  that  second  day  of  Feb 
ruary  when  he  emerges,  and  he  can  not  cast  a  shadow,  the  offi 
cial  declaration  goes  forth  that  an  early  spring  and  bright 
days  are  to  follow.  Now  do  not  jump  at  the  conclusion,  kind 
reader,  that  the  Tennessee  ground-hog  ever  gets  so  poor 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  65 

that  he  cannot  cast  a  shadow  if  the  sun  be  shining.  Far  be 
it  from  my  intention  to  intimate  any  such  thing.  The  Tennes 
see  ground-hog,  like  everything  else  in  this  hog  and  hominy 
State,  is  abundantly  able  to  cast  any  number  of  shadows.  The 
term  is  used  metaphorically,  and  is  but  another  way  of  saying 
that  the  ground-hog  emerges  from  his  hole  to  see  whether  or 
not  the  sun  is  shining. 

Now,  if  the  sun  be  shining  on  that  second  day  of  Febru 
ary,  as  aforesaid,  he  goes  back  into  his  hole  to  remain  there 
for  six  long  weeks,  and  nothing  under  heaven  but  an  earth 
quake  with  a  geyser  attachment  can  get  him  out.  There  he 
will  remain  though  the  heavens  fall,  or  his  mother-in-law  pays 
him  a  visit.  And  all  the  men,  women  and  children  in  Tennes 
see  accept  his  decision  and  prepare  to  keep  on  their  winter 
flannels  as  per  order  of  this  absolutely  reliable  authority.  Was 
ever  anything  more  simple  and  plain  and  absolutely  inexpen 
sive?  And  the  beauty  of  it  is,  it  has  never  been  known  to 
lie — it  is  Truth  itself,  decked  in  homespun  and  a  wool  hat; 
it  is  Washington  with  a  Bible  in  one  hand  and  a  pair  of 
hatchets  in  the  other.  We  commend  it  to  the  department 
at  Washington! 

But  let  us  proceed  with  the  research  that  brought  us  up 
to  the  origin  of  "First  Monday."  The  connecting  link  is  plain 
enough.  After  consulting  many  ancient  volumes,  we  have 
discovered  that  originally,  in  the  early  history  of  the  State, 
the  First  Monday  in  April,  a  day  now  entirely  devoted  to  the 
display  of  live  stock,  was  a  kind  of  feast  day  in 
the  temple  of  Ground-Hogium,  celebrated  in  honor  of  the 
termination  of  the  Ground-Hog's  potent  prophecy.  As  time 
went  on  and  people  began  to  use  the  pacinghorse  as  a  means 
of  reaching  the  county  site  to  participate  in  the  festivities, 
great  interest  began  to  be  manifested  by  those  who  were  bold 
enough  to  "ride  a  critter,"  (when  they  might  just  as  well  walk) 
in  the  various  animals  collected,  in  the  town.  This  interest 
gradually  grew,  strengthened  by  a  horse  race  now  and  then, 
and  sustained  by  the  laudable  desire  in  the  breast  of  every 


66  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

patriotic  Tennessean  to  see  that  his  family  relic  of  a  horse, 
afflicted  with  every  disease  from  Bright's  to  "that  tired  feel 
ing,"  died  the  property  of  some  unsophisticated  countryman. 
In  this  way  the  custom  was  gradually  changed  from  Ground- 
Hog  worship  to  horse  swapping,  from  a  religious  festival  to 
the  intricate  diplomacy  of  lying  about  one's  horse.  And  so  it 
remains  to  this  day. 

How  often  does  history  repeat  itself.  The  Druidical  wor 
ship  of  our  old  forefathers  in  the  woods  of  Britain  was  the 
forerunner  of  the  true  worship  of  to-day;  and  from  the  woods 
of  Tennessee,  around  the  sacred  temple  of  the  priestly  Ground 
Hog  has  emanated  the  beautiful  custom  of  "First  Monday." 

On  the  day  in  question,  the  pikes  are  fairly  alive  with 
folks,  peoples,  horses,  jacks  and  niggers.  Observe  the  order 
in  which  I  name  these,  kind  reader;  for  that  order  is  the  order 
in  which  they  stand  socially  in  Tennessee.  Observe  also,  if 
you  please,  that  I  make  a  distinction  between  peoples  and 
folks — folks  being  those  who  own  a  pacing  horse  and  are  able 
to  drive  or  ride  to  town;  while  peoples  are  merely  common 
plugs  who  must  walk.  Peoples  are  further  divided,  I  might 
as  well  tell, — because  the  distinction  is  quite  important  in 
Tennessee — into  three  classes;  those  who  are  able  to  wear 
shoes  and  stockings,  those  who  have  shoes  but  no  stockings, 
and  those  who  go  barefooted  You  may  think  this  is  foolish 
and  unnecessary  distinction,  kind  reader,  but  allow  me  to 
inform  you  it  is  based  on  one  of  the  most  beautiful  customs 
of  the  unwritten  law  of  Middle  Tennessee  and  one  which  is 
very  closely  observed  in  the  State.  For,  when  "all  hands' 
have  reached  the  classic  town  of  Columbia,  for  instance,  their 
first  duty  is  to  repair  to  the  nearest  bar  for  a  drink,  and  here  it 
is  that  the  distinction  between  the  folks  and  the  three  classes 
of  peoples  is  so  nicely  drawn.  When  a  portly  gentleman 
of  the  first  class  walks  in,  his  face  shining  behind  a  silver  grey 
mustache,  no  question  is  asked,  but  the  best  in  the  house  is 
set  up.  He's  folks.  But  when  one  of  the  other  class  walks 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  67 

in,  the  bar-keeper  peeps  over  the  counter  to  observe  his 
foot  gear.  If  he  has  on  shoes  and  stockings,  the  barkeeper 
knows  his  purse  will  stand  Lincoln  County's  Medium;  if  he 
has  on  shoes  but  no  stockings,  apple  brandy  from  the  county 
of  Warren,  smelling  of  Tarn  O'Shanter's  midnight  ride,  is  set 
out;  but  if,  in  looking  over  the  counter,  the  barkeeper's  eyes 
meet  the  sprawling  flabbiness  of  two  po'-white  feet,  bust-head 
at  five  cents  a  glass  is  what  he  wants.  In  no  case  is  any  ques 
tion  asked  except,  "How  are  you  shod,  partner?" 

Was  ever  anything  more  simple? 

And  so  they  come  on  "First  Monday," — all  bound  for  Co 
lumbia.  The  country  cousin  riding  his  pacing  stallion  with 
a  darky  bringing  up  the  rear  leading  an  ambling  ass  and  in 
terrupting  his  assship's  repeated  endeavors  to  keehonk, 
keehonk  every  now  and  then  by  a  vigorous  jerking  of  his  bit, 
much  to  the  disgust  of  that  classic  animal.  Two  young  bucks 
fly  by  in  a  buck-board  drawn  by  a  slick  pacer  that  has  given 
everybody's  team  the  dust  since  they  left  Spring  Hill. 

"Say,  nigger,  whose  jack  is  that?"  they  yell  out  as  they 
pass. 

"Capt.  Jackson,  sah,"  is  the  answer  amid  a  display  of 
ivory — caused  by  the  implied  compliment  to  his  charge. 

"Fine  feller,"  they  shout  back,  "we're  fur  him  for  the 
legislature" — but  whether  they  meant  the  ass  or  the  master, 
deponent  sayeth  not,  merely  remarking  that,  so  far  as  the 
personality  of  the  Tennessee  legislature  is  concerned,  it  is 
"a  difference  without  a  distinction." 

They  are  all  there,  "goin'  to  Columbia!" 

Every  old  lady  who  has  a  hank  of  yarn  for  sale,  is  there. 
Every  pretty  girl,  showing  unmistakable  evidence  of  being 
fixed  up  for  the  occasion,  with  too  much  powder  over  her 
natural  roses  and  a  well-I-don't-feel-exactly-kinder-easy-in- 
these-stays  kind  of  look,  is  there.  Every  urchin  who  can 
bring  a  dozen  eggs  in  his  hat  and  his  pockets,  is  there.  All, 
from  the  rich  farmer  behind  his  spanking  surrey  team,  to  the 


68  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

old  darkey  on  his  load  of  stove  wood;  from  the  well-to-do 
farmer  with  his  wife  and  happy  children,  the  latter  looking 
a  little  unnatural  in  the  solemnity  that  has  come  over  them 
by  reason  of  the  startling,  novel  and  astonishing  fact  that 
they,  too,  are  at  last  "goin'  to  Columbia,"  to  the  poor  cropper 
on  his  mule — they  are  all  in  the  procession!  The  man  with  his 
patent;  the  officer  with  his  papers;  that  most  detested  of  liv 
ing  men,  the  back  tax-collector;  the  man  who  wants  to  hire; 
the  book  agent;  the  "nigger"  with  a  grin  on  his  face  and  game 
rooster  under  his  arm — they  are  all  there,  "gwine  to  Colum 
bia."  On  the  square  all  is  hustle,  stir,  squeaking,  snorting, 
cackling,  flying,  braying,  jostling,  arguing. 

But  allow  me  to  digress  right  here,  kind  reader,  and  ex 
plain  to  you  what  "the  square"  means.  There  are  two  kinds 
of  "squares"  in  Tennessee — "Square"  Jones  and  the  Court 
House  square.  The  latter  is  the  square  I  refer  to.  It  is 
really  but  the  meeting  of  four  broad  streets,  around  the  temple 
of  justice,  where  all  the  trade  and  trafficing  is  done.  In  Co 
lumbia  this  temple  of  justice  is  a  most  ancient  and  dilapidated 
structure,  built  with  so  little  regard  for  architectural  rules 
that  the  oldest  inhabitant  has  never  yet  been  able  to  tell  which 
one  of  its  sides  was  intended  for  the  front;  but  as  it  was  in 
this  building  that  Andrew  Jackson  stirred  his  partisans,  and 
James  K.  Polk  was  wont  to  practice  law,  the  citizens  of  the 
county  would  not  exchange  it  for  a  duplication  of  the  classic 
Parthenon.  Around  it  they  assemble  to  barter,  to  trade  and 
to  swap  horses.  Now  when  people  assemble  to  swap  horses, 
you  know  what  follows.  And  why  they  should  have  selected 
their  temple  of  justice  around  which  to  do  their  lying,  is  more 
than  I  can  tell.  My  private  opinion  is  that  the  horny  fisted 
horse  swapper  believed  he  had  as  much  right  to  lie  around  the 
ground  floor  of  the  temple  as  the  lawyer  had  on  the  second 
floor. 

A  big  fellow  with  a  cat-fish  mouth,  chin  whiskers  and  a 
bald  head  is  mounted  on  a  wagon  preaching  free  salvation 
to  a  crowd  that  looks  like  they  thought  it  was  a  mighty  long 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  69 

time  between  drinks;  two  darkies  on  a  corner  have  met  and 
are  discussing  the  efficacy  of  baptism,  while  numbers  of  the 
dusky  partisans  stand  around  now  and  then  to  exclaim — 
"dats  de  truf,  amen!"  A  man  rushes  to  the  door  in  a  corner 
of  the  Square  and  rings  vigorously  a  big  dinner  bell.  It  is  a 
sign  that  he  wants  to  feed  them  all  at  his  restaurant.  There 
are  four  corners  to  every  square  and  soon  a  bell  is  clanging  in 
each  of  the  other  three  corners  to  let  the  world  know  the 
first  fellow  hadn't  all  of  the  dinner. 

But  soon  a  mighty  shout  arises,  and  the  word  is  passed 
up  and  down  the  line  of  spectators:  "There  comes  Walter 
Woldridge!  There  comes  Walter  Woldridge!"  And  sure 
enough  there  he  does  come,  mounted  on  his  elegant  sad 
dler  and  leading  the  procession  to  the  Temple  of  Ground- 
hogium.  To  attempt  to  have  a  First  Monday  without  Wal 
ter  Woldrige,  the  most  popular  man  in  Maury  County,  the 
beau-ideal  of  a  horseman,  gentleman  and  Nature's  noble 
man,  would  be  like  trying  to  have  a  stock  parade  with  the 
nobility  of  pedigree  omitted. 

"No,  no,  boys,"  as  Newt  Dew  would  say,  "leave  out  the 
groundhog,  but  don't  leave  out  Walter  Woldridge!" 

And  so  the  procession  comes,  a  long  line  of  glistening 
flanks,  arching  necks,  prancing  steps,  mincing  gaits,  whin- 
neys,  nickers,  snorts,  bellows  and  brays  in  semi-hemi-demi- 
quivers,  beginning  with  Brown  Hal  and  Duplex,  and  end 
ing  with  Plummer  Webster  and  Tax  Payer. 

They  are  all  there — "gwine  to  Columbia." 

A  twenty-foot  track  is  made  in  the  living  crowd  around 
the  Court  house  square  and  half  a  hundred  flying  pacers  are 
showing  their  gaits,  while  the  chancellor  leaves  his  bench  and 
the  lawyers  their  cases  to  look  out  of  the  windows.  A  bell 
is  ringing  across  the  street  at  a  store  and  proclaims  that  the 
ladies  of  a  certain  church  are  giving  a  lunch  to  pay  off  the 
church  debt;  an  auctioneer  is  howling  away,  trying  to  sell  a 
$10  buggy  for  $25;  a  man  with  a  patent  blacking,  warranted 


70  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

to  shine  forever,  is  blacking  the  boots  of  all  who  will  come  to 
his  stand;  a  big  jack  brays  in  your  ear  while  you  are  looking 
at  a  dog  fight  under  a  wagon;  an  apple  wagon,  all  the  way 
from  the  "State  of  Lawrence,"  is  selling  the  rosy  fruit  left  and 
right. 

Elbow  your  way  through  the  crowd  on  the  square  and  you 
will  laugh  at  the  fragments  of  conversation  you  hear  as  you 
pass — "No,  no,  no,  the  wheat  crop's  boun'  ter  be  a  failure"- 
"Is  Sally  raelly  done  married  at  last?  Who — '  "Fine  as  he 
kin  be — sound  in  wind,  limb  an'  eye — furst  dam  by  Tom  Hal, 
second  dam  by  Pinter's  Slasher — "  "Git  out,  nigger,  who  is 
you  enny  how?"  "Keehonk,  keehonk,  keehonk,  keehe,  kee 
hee,  keehee-e-eow!"  "No,  no,  Majah,  the  fundamental  prin 
ciples  of  the  Democratic  party —  "Coin',  goin',  gone — sold 
fur  twenty-five  cents  to  the  red-headed  gentleman  with  a  wart 
on  his — " 

You  never  stop  to  learn  where  the  wart  is,  for  your  atten 
tion  is  attracted  to  a  vacant  lot  as  you  pass  where  a  darky  is 
selling,  to  those  who  have  money  to  buy,  a  cart  load  of  Duck 
river  cat-fish  and  buffalo,  while  behind  the  cart,  in  the  vacant 
lot,  a  negro  dance  is  in  full  swing.  You  stop  to  listen,  for  the 
fiddler,  inspired  by  the  music  of  his  fiddle  and  the  muse  of 
inspiration,  has  rhymed  in  his  calls  to  music,  and,  keeping 
time  with  his  feet  to  the  flying  bow,  sings  out  in  his  peculiar 
chant: 

Great  big  fat  man  down  in  de  corner 

Dance  to  de  gal  wid  de  blue  dress  on  her; 

You  Tittle  bitter  feller  widout  eny  vest 

Dance  to  de  gal  in  de  caliker  dress. 

Git  up,  Jake,  an'  turn  your  partner, 

Shake  dem  feet  as  you  kno'  you  'orter; 

You  little  red  nigger  wid  de  busted  back 

Git  up  an'  gin  us  de  "chicken  rack." 

All  hands  round — O,  step  lite,  ladies, 

Don't  fling  yer  feet  so  fur  in  de  shadies; 


FROM     TENNESSEE.  >jl 

Come,  you  one-eyed  nigger,  fling 
Dem  feet  an'  gib  us  de  "pigeon  wing." 
Such  is  a  faint  idea  of  "First  Monday  in  Tennessee." 


THE  FAITH  OF  OLD. 

THE  years  with  their  changes  come,  and  the  years  with 
their  plans  unfold, 
But  give  me  the  peace  my  heart  hath  known  in  the  sweet 

dream-days  of  old. 
It  comes  to  my  soul  to-night,  like  the  dream  of  a  dream  at 

dawn, 
Like  the  smell  of  the  rain  on  the  ripen'd  grain,  at  the  first 

flush  of  the  morn. 
Then  rush  with  the  maddened  throng,  and  battle  for  fame 

and  gold, 

And  furl  your  flags  'mid  the  wrath  of  wrong  —  I'll  cling  to 
the  peace  of  old. 

The  years  with  their  follies  come,  with  their  follies  and  then 

their  woe; 
But  give  me  the  hope  of  the  years  I  knew  in  the  summer  of 

long  ago. 
It  comes  to  my  heart  to-night  like  the  song  of  the  birds  and 

the  bees, 
Like  the  blue  of  the  skies  that  over  them  rise  and  the  sway 

of  the  leaf  in  the  trees. 

Then  follow  the  fickle  throng,  and  clamor  both  loud  and  bold, 
And  drown  Truth's  voice  with  the  drums  of  Wrong  —  I'll  cling 

to  the  hope  of  old. 

The  years  with  their  visions  come,  and  go,  as  a  tale  that  is 

told— 
But  give  me  the  faith  my  mother  taught  in  the  bright,  glad 

days  of  old. 


72  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

It  comes  to  my  soul  to-night,  and  I  know  there's  a  God 

above, 
Else  why  should  I  long,  in  an  infinite  song,  to  tell  of  the 

depths  of  love? 
Then  kneel  to  the  tinseled  knave,  and  offer  your  soul  at  his 

shrine  — 
You  bind  your  wreaths  on  the  brow  of  a  slave  —  I'll  cling  to 

the  hand  Divine. 


FAIR  TIMES  IN  OLD  TENNESSEE. 

FAIR  time  in  ole  Tennessee,  days  jes'  to  yer  makin', 
Nights  so  cool  an'  crispy,  jes'  the  kind  for  'possum 

shakin', 

Mornin's  bright  wid  sun  an'  light  of  frosty  dew  an'  flashy, 
Weather  jes'  the  kind  to  make  the  little  nigger  ashy! 
Bak'n  in  de  rafters,  sorghum  mills  er  grindin'  sweetin', 
Punkins  in  de  hay  loft  an'  religgun  in  de  meetin'! 

Fair  time  in  ole  Tennnessee,  ebery  body  gwine, 

Waggins  full  o'  pritty  gals,  dair  ribbons  jesr  a'flyin', 

Pikes  jes'  full  o'  people,  an'  de  woods  jes'  full  o'  niggers 

A'leadin'  ob  de  pacin'  colts  wid  marks  down  in  de  figgers. 

Hoss  an'  jack  an'  jinny  an'  Jersey  bull,  all  gwineter 

Git  dar,  'kase  deys  brudders  to  dat  good  ole  hoss,  Hal  Pinter! 

Fair  time  in  ole  Tennessee,  ebery  body  stirrin'  — 
Cl'ar  de  road,  dair  comes  er  fool  a'whippin'  an'  a'spurrin'I 
Look  out  dair  yo'  nigger,  Julius  Sezer  Andrer  Asker! 
Lead  dat  pesky  jack  erside  and  let  dis  Hal  hoss  pass,  suh! 
Dun  fergot  your  raisin',  eh?     Fust  thing  dat  you  kno',  suh, 
You  think  de  state  ob  Tennesse  dun  drap  on  you,  fer  sho', 
suh! 

Fair  time  in  ole  Tennnessee,  all  de  niggers  dancin', 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  73 

All  de  hosses  in  de  ring  a'pacin'  an'  a'prancin', 
White  folks  drinkin'  lemonade  jes'  lak  it  wus  col'  water, 
Nigger  drinkin'  simmon  beer,  de  drink  he  allers  orter, 
Nights  jes'  full  er  moonlight  wid  de  darkey's  heel  a'flyin'  — 
Lord,  when  I  die,  jes'  take  me  whar  a  fair  is  allers  gwine! 


WHEN  THE  COLTS  ARE  IN  THE  RING. 

Othe  fair  time,  the  rare  time,  I  can  feel  it  in  the  air, 
j     As  we  take  our  brimming  baskets  and  go  out  to  see 

the  fair; 
The  lasses  decked  with  ribbons  red,  the  colts  with  ribbons 

blue  — 

What  a  trial  for  the  gallant  lads  to  choose  between  the  two! 
No  season  of  old  mother  earth  can  half  such  blessings  bring 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  maiden  and  the  colts  are  in  the 
ring. 

O,  the  beauty  of  the  bonnie  curls,  the  rapture  of  the  race! 
O!  the  maiden  with  the  pretty  foot  —  the  filly  that  can  pace! 
The  one  in  russet  harness  with  a  halter  I  can  hold, 
But  the  other's  got  me  harnessed  in  her  wavy  hair  of  gold. 
O  the  autumn  time  is  full  of  joy  and  every  goodly  thing, 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  maiden  and  the  colts  are  in  the 
ring. 

I 

O,  the  fair  time,  the  rare  time,  when  the  Jerseys  set  the  pace 
In  a  sheen  of  silken  colors  and  a  skin  of  chrome  lace, 
And  the  Berkshires  tie  their  tails  up  in  a  lovely  Psyche  knot, 
And  the  Shorthorns  and  the  Shropshires  and  Southdowns 

make  it  hot. 

"I  wouldn't  live  here  always,"  is  the  doleful  song  they  sing, 
Who  never  loved  a  maiden  while  the  colts  were  in  the  ring. 


74  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

O,  the  fair  time,  the  rare  time,  in  our  life  a  verdant  spot, 
When  the  people  are  all  jolly  and  their  trials  are  forgot; 
And  I  sit  and  muse  in  fancy  to  the  days  so  long  ago 
When  I  sparked  my  little  sweetheart  out  to  see  the  County 

show. 
Since  then  old  Time  has  made  me  dance  —  to-day  I'll  make 

him  sing, 
For  the  bloom  is  on  the  maiden  and  the  colts  are  in  the  ring. 


THE  RABBIT  TRAP. 

DOWN  in  de  sage  fiel',  settin'  in  de  sno', 
I  looks  from  de  winder  an'  I  sees  whut  is  lef 
Uv  er  rickety  rabbit  trap,  whar  de  tall  weeds  bio', 
An'  little  Phil  made  it  by  his  own  little  sef. 

He  cut  de  pine  sticks,  an'  he  bent  de  peach  bow, 
An'  he  whittled  out  de  triggers  wid  his  Barlo'  blade, 

Den  he  slip  off  by  hissef  jes'  es  sly  as  he  cud  go, 
An'  sot  it  by  de  big  stump  in  de  shugar  glade. 

An'  he  laf  an'  he  played  twell  de  big  red  moon 

Riz  frum  de  medder,  an'  dey  tole  'im  "cum  ter  bed." 

But  he  said:    "Daddy  Wash,  you  must  wake  me  mighty  soon, 
Fur  I'm  gwinter  ketch  Brer  Rabbit,  sho',  —  an'  you  may 
have  his  head." 

Po'  little  Phil!     Ole  Marster's  lastes'  chile, 

An'  me  an'  Dinah  nussed  'im  an'  we  loved  'im  lak  our  own, 
Wid  sunlight  allers  in  hes  heart  and  moonlight  in  his  smile  — 

But  dey  am  sot  foreber  now  and  lef'  us  hear  ter  moan. 

Fur  dey  saunt  fur  me  quick  dat  night  'bout  'leben, 
An'  de  white  folks  was  cryin'  'round  er  little  trundle-bed; 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  75 

''Daddy    Wash,"    sed  po'    little    Phil,    "I'm    gwinter  up  to 

Heaben, 
But  you  must  watch  my  rabbit  trap  whilst  I'm  dead." 

Down  in  de  grabe  yard  whar  de  cedars  bio' 
I  looks  frum  de  winder  an'  my  tears  fall  ergain, 

Fur  I  sees  er  little  grabe  dar,  out  in  de  sno', 
An'  little  Phil  sleeps  in  de  sleet  an'  de  rain. 


MISS  KITTY'S  FUN'RAL. 


O, 


HEAH  de  banjo  ringin', 
'  •,      O  heah  de  tamboreen, 
O  heah  de  darkies  singin', 

Susanna  am  my  queen. 

O  cum,  my  lub;  O  cum,  my  lub,  wid  me; 

We'll  dance  an'  sing  down  by  de  'simmon  tree; 

O  heah  de  banjo  ringin', 

O  heah  de  tamboreen; 

O  heah  de  darkies  singin', 

Susanna  am  my  queen. 

A  song  in  type  is  as  unsatisfactory  as  one  of  Nature's 
pastels  on  pasteboard,  and  the  simple  negro  melody  above 
sounds  nothing  like  the  vibrating  notes  that  floated,  not  long 
ago,  into  my  window,  fresh  from  the  echoing  strings  of  a 
banjo.  I  could  not  resist  it,  and  on  going  out  I  found  Old 
Wash,  as  everybody  calls  the  old  darkey,  under  the  elm 
that  shaded  his  cabin  door.  The  moonbeams  glittered 
askance,  flecking  the  earth  with  silvered  blossoms  and  chang 
ing  each  flooded  leaf  into  a  night-blooming  flower.  The  dis 
tant  notes  of  a  tree-frog  came  from  the  forest  beyond,  while 
the  regular  cadences  of  a  whippoorwill  added  just  the  tinge  of 
weirdness  necessary  to  form  the  background  of  a  banjo  song. 


76  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

In  darkey  language,  the  old  man  was  "makin'  de  banjo  hum," 
and  for  melody  and  sweetness,  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  there 
is  no  instrument  more  weirdly  musical. 

To-night  Old  Wash  was  beside  himself.  The  brass  thimble 
on  his  "pickin*  finger"  flashed  in  the  moonlight;  his  foot 
patted  in  unison,  and  fluttered  like  a  black  bat  trying  to 
leave  the  earth.  Even  his  body  kept  time  and  swayed  to 
and  fro  with  the  music.  I  listened  in  silent  delight.  The 
tune  I  had  heard  before,  but  not  the  words,  for  he  was  im 
provising  as  he  played. 

De  little  stars  am  winkin', 

Dey  'bout  ter  go  to  sleep; 
De  pale  moon  now  am  sinkin', 

An'  daylight  shadders  creep. 
O  cum,  my  lub,  we'll  dance  Ferginny  reel; 
De  sun  am  up  an'  shinin";  now  for  de  cotton  fiel'. 
O  heah  de  banjo  ringin', 

O  heah  de  tamboreen; 
O  heah  de  darkies  singin', 

Susanna  am  my  queen. 

"Go  on,  old  man,"  I  said:  "Give  me  that  song  again. 
You  almost  make  me  feel  like  going  courting  again.  What's 
the  matter  with  you?  Thinking  about  starting  all  over  in 
life?" 

"No,  sah;  'taint  dat,  sah,"  laughed  the  old  man,  '"taint 
dat.  Deys  too  much  moss  on  de  ole  tree  fur  de  leaves  ter 
cum  ergin.  De  sap  can't  rise  when  de  bark  am  dead.  De 
leabes  fall  off  when  de  cotton  boll  open.  Didn't  you  nurver 
think  erbout  it?"  he  added  after  a  moment's  thought,  "de 
soul  don't  nurver  gro'  ole  ef  it's  libbed  right.  De  head  gits 
white  an'  de  lim's  weak  an'  de  eyes  dim,  but  de  soul  gits 
younger  es  it  grows  older,  de  ole  man  gits  mo'  lak  er  boy 
es  he  goes  down  de  hill.  Nachur  kinder  seems  to  ease  us 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  77 

off  de  stage  ob  life  gently,  lak  she  foch  us  in.  In  our  ole 
age  we  gits  young  ergin  an'  childish  and  happy.  We  eben 
try  ter  kick  up  our  heels  ergin  an'  be  funny  an'  'magine 
we  gwinter  lib  er  long,  long  time  yit.  Sho'  me  de  ole 
man — don't  keer  how  ole  he  am — dat  don't  spec'  ter  lib  at 
least  ten  yeahs  longer.  Dat's  nachur's  way  ob  foolin'  us, 
sah;  dat's  her  way  ob  puttin'  her  babies  ter  sleep — de  last 
long  sleep.  Puttin'  'em  ter  sleep  contented  lak,  an'  happy, 
thinkin'  dey'll  wake  in  the  mornin'  an'  be  young  ergin." 

"I  tell  you,  sah,  ole  Master's  mighty  good  to  us.  He 
could  er  put  us  heah  widout  hope,  ef  he  had  wanted  to; 
he  could  er  put  us  heah  widout  sweet  dreams,  widout 
vishuns  of  er  better  wurl,  widout  dat  onpurchasabul  feelin' 
dat  cums  to  us  when  we  knows  we  dun  right — widout  eben 
de  blessed  Book.  But  he  didn't.  An'  so  we  dream  on  to 
de  last  an'  hope  to  de  last,  an'  b'leeve  we  gwinter  be  better 
an'  stronger  to-morrer  an'  cling  to  de  Good  Book  fur  de 
sweetes'  promis'  of  dem  all — de  promis'  dat  we'll  lib  ergin. 

"No,  sah,"  he  continued,  as  he  threw  off  his  solemn 
tone  and  brightened  up  a  bit,  "no,  sah,  sho'  es  you  lib 
right  you'll  git  younger  es  you  gro'  older.  Why,  sah,  de 
oldes'  man  or  woman  in  de  wurl  am  de  middle-aiged,  chillun- 
raisin',  money-makin',  bizness-wurryin',  ain't-got-no-time-to- 
eat,  folks.  Dey  am  de  ole  ones,  far  older  den  de  gray  haids 
lak  me  dat  dun  laid  erside  all  dese  heah  trashy  things  an'  got 
to  romantin'  ergin. 

"Why,  whut  you  reckon  I  wus  thinkin'  erbout  to-night?" 
asked  the  old  man  as  he  looked  sheepishly  around  at  the 
door  way,  in  which  sat  Aunt  Dinah,  his  wife.  This  dusky 
lady  had  been  listening  apparently  unconcerned  at  the  old 
man's  narration,  but  filling  the  still  night  air  with  fragrant 
breath  of  "deer  tongue  and  Williamson  leaf"  as  the  smoke 
curled  up  from  her  newly  made  cob-pipe. 

"Thinkin'  about  marrying  again?"  I  asked,  as  I  glanced 
suspiciously  at  Aunt  Dinah,  and  then  I  watched  her  shuffle  her 
feet  disdainfully  as  she  stopped  smoking  long  enough  to  re- 


78  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

mark  laconically:  "Jes' let 'im  go  on,  young  Master — let 'im 
superseed,"  she  said  as  she  followed  her  usual  custom  of 
throwing  in  some  big  word  sounding  something  like  the 
one  she  was  trying  to  use.  "Let  'im  superseed.  He  has 
dese  fits  ebry  now  an'  den  an'  de  bes'  way  ter  stop  'im  am  to 
let  'im  run  down  lak  you  hafter  do  dese  heah  old-fashuned 
clocks.  Whut  er  indellibul  wurkin'  appleratus  he'd  be,"  she 
said  ironically,  "ef  he  was  only  es  game  in  de  tater  patch  as 
he  am  in  de  moonlight." 

The  old  man  glanced  sorrowfully  at  the  door  way  and 
continued:  "Ter  night  I  jes'  gotter  thinkin  'erbout  my 
young  Mistis,  Miss  Kitty,  de  younges'  dorter  ob  Marse  Rob 
ert  Young;  dis  chile  ob  his  old  aige  by  his  secon'  wife,  de 
prooty  leetle  Yankee  guv'ness  dat  cum  down  from  Bosting. 
She  cum  down  ter  teach  ole  Marster's  yudder  gals,  but  she 
got  ter  lubbin'  her  skolers  so  she  married  dey  daddy  so  she 
cud  be  a  mammy  to  'em.  Ain't  it  strange  how  wimmen  folks 
will  git  up  enny  kinder  excuse  to  marry  on?  Why,  I've 
knowed  'em  ter  marry  fur  indergestion  an'  dat  tired  feelin'," 
laughed  the  old  darky,  as  he  winked  at  me  and  then  glanced 
at  the  cabin  door. 

"Wai,  she  made  'em  er  good  mudder  an'  ole  Marster  er 
good  wife  ef  she  did  lub  cod-fish  balls  an'  baked  beans.  An' 
her  dorter,  Miss  Kitty!  Why  man  erlive,  dat  Yankee  cross 
on  our  Suddern  stock  jes'  got  up  de  proorties'  gal  dat  eber 
said  'Yas'  to  young  lub.  She  had  all  de  brains  an'  intellect 
ob  her  mammy's  side  wid  all  de  grace  an'  beauty  an'  high 
breedin'  an"  lily-complecshun  ob  us  Younges.  Her  mammy 
was  allers  dead  in  fur  edicashun,  an'  so  ole  Marster  saunt 
an'  got  'er  three  guv'nesses;  one  fur  edercashun,  one  fur 
musicashun,  an'  one  fur  dress  ercashun — an'  my!  how  she 
did  shine  when  she  growed  up!  She  was  de  prootiest  gal  dat 
ever  trod  blue  grass,  de  queenlies'  one  dat  ever  gethered  up 
her  trail,  an'  de  sweetes'  one  dat  ever  pulled  er  rose  in  or 
golden  bower  whar  de  hunnysuckers  gethers  de  dew-draps 
an'  de  turkey  dove  sings  in  de  moonlight.  I  was  de  kerridge 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  79 

driver  an'  kept  do  horses,  an'  es  I  useter  drive  her  about  an' 
see  her  wid  all  her  grace  an'  beauty  git  in  an'  out  der  ker- 
ridge,  I  tell  you  I  was  thankful  it  wus  me  dat  had  charge 
ob  her  an'  not  my  ancestors  in  Affercur — fur  dey  would  hab 
et  'er  up,  thinkin'  she  wus  sum  kinder  plumidged  bird  ob  de 
golden  pheasant  tribe. 

"Endurin'  her  sebenteenth  yeah,  Marse  Robert's  half- 
brother  died  in  Alerbama  an'  lef  Marse  Robert  gyardeen  fur 
his  son,  Henry  Robert  Littleton,  an'  he  soon  cum  out  to 
Tennessee  kose  he  had  no  close  kin  libin',  an'  Marse  Robert 
wanted  to  raise  'im,  though  he  was  nineteen  dat  fall.  An' 
he  wus  er  fine  young  man,  sah;  es  gentle  es  er  gal  an'  es 
nervy  es  a  red-bird  in  de  settin'  time.  Ef  by  accerdent  he 
got  in  de  wrong,  he'd  mighty  nigh  stan'  ennything  to  git 
right  ergin;  but  onc't  in  de  right  he'd  fight  fur  er  eye-lash. 
Why,  I  onc't  seed  'im  pollergize  to  de  oberseer,  who  was 
allers  overbearin'  an'  cussin',  'stead  ob  actin'.  Jes'  think  ob  it! 
pollergize  to  de  oberseer!  kose  he  happen  not  to  know  de 
oberseer's  orders  one  day  an'  saunt  one  ob  de  han's  on 
ernudder  erran'.  T'would  er  made  no  diff'rence  ef  he  hadn't 
pollergized  fur  it,  but  common  trash  can't  stan'  quality  an' 
allers  mistakes  gentleness  fur  lak  ob  grit,  an'  Marse  Henry's 
humbleness  made  de  po'  white  trash  uppish  an'  he  snapped 
out  dat  he  didn't  spec'  no  better  raisin'  from  er  boy  dat  had 
cum  frum  sech  er  cracker  states  es  Alerbama — hoo — hoo — e! 
— dat's  es  fur  es  he  got — Marse  Henry  knocked  'im  down 
three  times  befo'  he  cud  git  up  onc't. 

"Bringin'  two  sech  nachurs  togedder  under  de  same  roof, 
mighty  nigh  de  same  thing  es  mixin'  shampain  an'  red  lips, 
an'  I  seed  de  thing  wus  fixed  up  betwixt  'em  befo'  ole  Marster 
caught  on  an'  saunt  de  boy,  as  he  called  'im,  to  Ferginny  to 
finish  his  aigucashun.  But  dat  didn't  do  no  good;  ennybody 
dat  had  eber  seed  Miss  Kitty  en'  cud  ferget  'er,  ain't  de 
kinder  folks  de  gods  lub  ter  kill  young,  an'  arter  he  ben  dar 
fo'  yeahs  an'  finish  his  aigucashun  heah  he  cum  back  to 


8o  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Tennessee  ergin.  'Yore  haid's  lebel,  Marse  Henry,'  sez  1 
to  myself,  'de  right  kinder  man  don't  fall  in  lub  but  onc't 
an'  den  he  strikes  de  pyore  metal  or  de  wuss  pocket  ob  flint 
dat  eber  turned  er  pick!  An'  in  yore  case  ef  you  ain't  struck 
de  pyore  metal  I'm  black!' 

"An'  I've  heurd  ob  Romeo  an'  Greece  an'  all  dem  ole 
lubbers,"  said  the  old  man  learnedly,  "but  de  way  dese  heah 
two  young  folks  lubbed  one  ernudder  befo'  de  summer  went 
by  wus  ernuf  to  make  all  de  yudder  aiges  take  in  der  signs. 
Dat's  de  happies'  time  ob  everybody's  life,  ennyhow,"  he 
soliloquized:  "We  ain't  got  much  brains  at  dat  stage,  'kose 
Nachur  didn't  intend  us  ter  hab  'em;  ef  we  did  we  wouldn't 
git  koch  in  de  trap  she  sets  fur  us — de  trap  ob  matrimony. 
Arter  we  gits  kotched,"  said  the  old  man  as  he  shook  all 
over  with  quiet  laughter — "arter  we  git  kotched,  we  lak  de 
fox  in  de  fable  dat  got  hees  tail  in  de  steel  trap — we  kerry  it 
roun'  wid  us  ebrywhar  we  go  an'  make  out  lak  hits  des  whut 
we  wus  lookin'  fur  all  de  time,  an'  er  butiful  ornerment — 
but  Lor,  hit  pinches  mighty  hard  all  de  same." 

(A  vigorous,  jerky  puffing  in  the  doorway  and  clouds 
of  outraged  smoke  went  up  to  the  stars!) 

"An  whut  you  reckon  my  idee  ob  Heaben  am?"  queried 
the  old  man  emphatically.  "Hit's  er  blessed  place  way  up 
on  sum  star,  whar  de  Good  Marster  lows  us  ter  fall  in  lub 
ebry  day,  but  neber  lows  us  ter  spile  de  dream  by  marryin'— 
fur  dat  would  sho'  bust  up  Heaben!"  he  said  as  he  shot 
another  look  at  the  doorway.  "An'  I  kin  prove  it  by  de 
Scripturs  deysef,"  he  continued.  "Don't  de  Scripturs  say 
'dar  shall  be  no  marryin'  nur  gibbin'  in  marriage?'  an'  don't 
dey  also  teech  us  dat  up  in  Heaben  we  will  all  lub  one  ernud 
der?  Wei  jes'  put  dem  two  argyments  togedder  an'  tell  me 
how  you  gwinter  git  erround  'em,  sah.  Don't  dat  prove  de 
pint?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  get  around  them,"  I  laughed,  "they 
seem  to  be  good  doctrine;  but  go  on  with  your  story." 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  8 1 

"Wai,  sah,  de  match  wus  de  talk  ob  de  country,  as  bein' 
de  mos'  suiterabules'  one  dat  eber  wus." 

"Marse  Henry  an'  Miss  Kitty!  When  I  thinks  ob  dem 
ternight  I  kin  see  de  dew  on  de  young  grass  ob  life,  de 
roses  in  de  gyarden  ob  lub,  an'  de  stars  in  de  skies  ob  happi 
ness.  I  smell  de  flowers  ob  de  past  ergin  lak  dey  ustcr 
smell  when  I  wus  young.  I  see  de  long  walks  in  de  shade 
ob  de  ellums  an'  de  oaks,  an'  de  breaf  ob  de  prim-roses  floats 
ober  de  gyarden.  I  see  de  hoss-back  rides  when  de  flutter 
ob  Miss  Kitty's  ribbon  meant  de  flag  ob  de  yunerverse  to 
Marse  Henry,  an'  de  perfume  on  her  bit  ob  lace  han'kerchief 
brought  up  de  sweetes'  fragrance  frum  de  depths  ob  hees  hart. 
Her  eyes  wus  so  bright  dey'd  bring  him  up  befo'  day,  lak  de 
sun  befo'  it's  time,  an'  her  cheeks  wus  es  butiful  es  de  mohnin' 
skies  erbloom. 

"O  dar  am  lubs  an'  lubs,  but  dar  am  only  jes'  one  fus' 
lub  fur  us  all.  De  make-shifts  arter  dat  am  lak  tryin'  to 
make  de  red  rosebud  bloom  twict." 

"But  sumhow  ruther  ole  Marster  had  his  haid  sot  on 
er  young  lawyer  in  town  dat  dey  called  Capin'  Estes,  dat 
was  also  courtin'  Miss  Kitty,  lak  ebrybody  else  dat  seed  'er, 
an'  ole  Marster  looked  wid  mo'  favor  on  his  suit  dan  he 
did  on  Marse  Henry's,  on  account  ob  de  relashunship  betwixt 
'em.  But  dar's  where  ole  Marster  missed  it,  an'  de  onlies' 
time  I  urver  knowed  'im  to  miss  it.  But  dis  feller  was  slick, 
and  he  done  it  all  wid  de  leetle  insterment  in  'is  jaw.  He 
was  alers  talkin'  erbout  de  constertooshunal  perogatives  ob 
de  divine  right  ob  freemen'  an'  er  makin'  law  speeches  in 
de  Jestis  court  an'  er  windin'  up  wid  'my  country,  my  muther, 
my  Gord,  an'  my  feller  citizens,'  fer  he  was  sech  a  demijug 
he  allers  put  de  citizen  highes'.  Ef  he  wasn't  free  wind  at 
de  rasho  ob  16  ter  i,  an'  de  onlimited  coinage  ob  brass,  my 
name  ain't  Washingtun!  Why,  he  cud  talk  on  fo'  things  at 
de  same  time,  pocket  er  fee  on  bof  sides  ob  er  case,  an'  keep 
one  eye  on  de  bar-room  an'  de  yuther  on  de  church  steeple. 
He  cu'd  play  poker  lak  er  gambler,  drink  lak  er  Kansas 


82  SONCS    AND    STORIES 

drought,  an' pray  lak  er  country  deacon.  He  cud  get  drunk  lak 
er  sinner,  an'  yit  stan'  highes'  es  er  saint;  mak  lub  wid  one  eye 
to  Miss  Kitty  an'  yit  keep  de  yuther  solemnly  sot  fur  ole 
Marster  lak  St.  Paul  watchin'  fur  revolushuns!" 

"But  de  thing  soon  cum  to  er  end.  Marse  Henry  was 
too  honerbul  to  court  a  gal  widout  her  daddy's  say-so,  an' 
de  Chewsday  befo'  Easter  him  an'  ole  Marster  had  er  long 
talk  in  de  library.  Den  Marse  Henry  cum  out  sorry  lak  an' 
solemn  an'  he  tells  me  ter  take  extry  keer  ob  Jap — dat  wus 
his  haf-thurrerbred  saddle  hoss — an'  ter  rub  'im  down  well, 
an'  ter  feed  'im  oats,  not  er  grain  ob  cohn.  'Fur,'  sez  he, 
'Wash,  I'm  agwine  erway  furebber!'  " 

"An'  dat  night  I  seed  er  ghost!  Hit  wus  jes'  arter  Marse 
Henry  started  off.  I  hilt  his  stirrup  an'  beg  'im  wid  tears 
in  my  eyes  not  ter  leab  us:  'Who  gwi  hep  me  take  keer  ob 
de  hosses  now  an'  pick  out  de  yearlin's  fur  de  spring  races? 
Who  dis  nigger  gwi  foller  arter  de  houn's  in  de  spring  an' 
de  patterges  in  de  fall?  Who  gwi'  be  de  mohnin  sun  ob 
de  place  in  de  strength  ob  his  truth  an'  honer,  an'  de  sweet 
moonlight  in  his  tender  senterment  an'  simplicty?  Who  gwi' 
set  dc  'zample'  'mong  de  young  folks  fur  dat  conshus  quiet 
ness  dat  cums  wid  de  knowledge  ob  gameness  dat  am  afeered 
ob  nothin'  but  doin'  wrong?  O,  Marse  Henry!  Marse 
Henry,  we  can't  let  you  go!'" 

"I  hilt  on  ter  his  sturrups  an'  beg  'im  ergin  an'  ergin, 
fur  sumhow  I  felt  lak  I'd  nurver  see  'im  enny  mo'.  But  he 
only  grip  my  han'  ergin  an'  ergin,  an'  look  at  me  goody-by — 
good — by — wid  his  eyes,  fur  he  cudden't  talk,  an'  rode  oil" 
in  de  gloom  down  de  big  row  ob  ellums.  An'  dars  whar  1 
seed  er  ghost!  De  fus'  one  I  eber  seed!  Fur  es  I  stood 
watchin'  'im  wid  sumpin'  lak  er  pound  weight  m  my  throat, 
an'  mighty  nigh  a  ton  in  my  heart,  I  seed  dat  ghost  plain  es 
I  ebber  seed  ennything!  He  hed  got  nearly  to  de  gate  in 
de  dark  ob  de  big  obershadowin'  trees  whar  de  new  moon 
wus  tangled  up  in  de  lim's  (sho'  sign  er  bad  luck!)  when  out 
slip  de  ghost  frum  behind  er  big  tree  an'  I  lakter  drap  in 


FROM   TENNESSEE  8j 

my  tracks!  De  lump  went  down  in  my  throat,  but  grate 
Gawd,  how  my  hair  riz!  De  ghost  wuz  dressed  in  er  windin" 
sheet  ob  white  an*  wid  long  hair  hangin'  down  er  back,  an' 
she  skeered  Jap  so  he  bolts  an'  snorts  an'  she  muster  skeered 
Marse  Henry  too,  fur  I  seed  'im  stoop  down  ter  grab  dat 
ghost  an'  sabe  hisself,  an' — an' — den — fo'  Gawd!  I  kno'  you 
won't  beliebe  it,  but  Marse  Henry  jes'  kissed  dat  ghost  time 
an'  ergin  an"  I  heurd  'im  say  'furebber  my  darling,'  er  sumpin' 
dat  sounded  lak  it  an'  den  Jap's  gallup  clattered  up  de  pike 
an'  de  young  Marster  dat  I  lub  so  well  wus  gone!" 

"How  you  know  dat  wuss  er  gal-ghost  ef  you  nurver 
seed  one  befo'?"  came  mercilessly  from  the  doorway.  "O 
you'll  be  inexpressibul  in  de  tater-patch  to-morrer!"  But 
the  old  man  had  not  been  married  fifty  years  and  failed  to 
learn  the  first  lesson  of  matrimony,  so  he  said  nothing  but 
sorrowfully  continued: 

"De  naixt  thing  we  heurd,  Marse  Henry  wus  way  down 
in  Fluridy,  an'  de  naixt  he  hed  jined  Gen.  Lopez  wid  de 
five  hundred  Americans  dat  went  ober  ter  hep  de  Cubans 
fight  fer  liberty.  An'  dey  got  er  fighter  when  dey  got  Marse 
Henry!  Hit  was  bred  in  'im  fur  it  cum  jes'  es  nachul  fur 
us  Scotch-Irish  ter  fight  fur  liberty — ennybody's  liberty  an* 
enny  kinder  liberty — es  it  is  fer  er  game  cock  ter  crow  when 
he  sees  de  fus  beam  ob  daylight." 

"Fur  Liberty,"  said  the  old  man,  "is  de  daylight  ob  hu 
manity!"  "An'  while  I'm  on  dat  subject,"  he  said  warmly, 
"I  jes'  wanter  go  on  record  'bout  dese  Cuban  fights:  Dat 
wus  forty-five  years  ergo,  an'  I  heurn  tell  dese  Cubans  am 
makin'  de  same  fight  now  dey  did  den.  I  heah  de  papers  call 
'em  rebels,  but  I  tell  yo',  sonny,  dat  am  er  wrong  name.  Ef 
dey  succeeds  de  wurl  will  call  'em  patriots! 

"For  Rebel,"  he  said,  "is  de  name  dat  tyranny  gibs  to  de 
onsuccessful  patriot! 

"An'  hit  makes  my  blood  bile,"  he  said  as  he  grew  ex 
cited,  arose  from  his  chair,  and  threw  his  banjo  down,  "hit 
makes  my  blood  bile  when  I  sees  how  we  set  back  on  our 


84  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

dignerty,  burn  fiah-crackers,  cellerbrate  de  fourth  of  July,  an' 
scream  fur  de  bird  ob  freedom  twell  we  hab  er  case  ob  kronic 
sore-throat,  an'  den  call  de  folks  dat  am  makin'  de  same  fight 
we  made,  rebels.  An'  wussen  dat;  set  right  still  aholdin'  to 
de  tail  ob  our  eagle — (fur  fear  he'll  fly  ober  dar  I  reckon) — 
an'  fusin'  to  help  'em.  We,  who  fit  fur  less  dan  one-tenth 
dese  people  hafter  stand',  now  arter  we  git  strong  an'  pow'ful, 
we  set  back  an'  see  dem  make  de  same  fight  we  made,  an' 
feered  all  de  time  to  open  our  moufs,  lest  we  take  er  bad 
cold! 

"Or  ef  we  does  we  puts  our  han's  ober  our  harts  an' 
bows  an'  scrapes  erroun'  dat  little  nest  ob  royal  crows,  dat 
useter  be  Spanish  eagles,  an'  talk  erbout  de  curt'sy  ob  Na- 
shuns'  an'  all  dat!  Shame,  I  say!" 

As  he  sat  down  after  delivering  this  rebuke,  his  voice 
was  peculiarly  sad  as  he  continued:  "But  you've  read  his 
tory  an'  kno'  how  dat  fight  ended.  Marse  Henry  beat  'em 
time  an'  ergin,  but  arter  erwhile  de  leetle  ban'  was  ober-pow- 
ered  by  de  whole  Spanish  Army,  an' — wal — "he  wiped  away 
a  tear — "dem  dat  didn't  die  in  de  fight  wus  hung  up  lak  dogs! 
all  but  Marse  Henry — brave,  generus,  noble  Marse  Henry! 
De  papers  said  dat  he  erlone  wus  shot,  dat  he  gib  de  Spanish 
offercers  old  Jap.de  horse  he  lubbed  so  well,  if  he'd  shoot  'im 
lak  er  sojer,  and  not  hang  'im  lak  er  spy!  An'  dey  shot  'im 
fer  doin'  whut  wus  bred  in  'im  ter  do,  when  two  ob  his  gran'- 
daddies  follered  de  flag  of  Green's  brigade  in  No'th  Calliner, 
or  helped  whip  ole  Ferguson  at  King's  Mountain. 

"Po'  Marse  Henry!  Wal,  sah,  de  news  lakter  kill  us. 
Hit  hurt  eben  ole  Marster,  fur  I  uster  heah  him  walkin'  de 
library  flo'  an'  talkin'  erbout  it  to  hissef:  'De  boy  wus  too 
high  strung,'  he  would  say,  'I  did  not  want'  im  to  leab  us. 
I  had  no  idea  he  wus  gwine  on  dat  fool  fillerbuster!'  An' 
den  he  would  storm  erroun'  dat  room  an'  git  hot  under  de 
collar  as  he  thort  how  contrary  to  de  rules  ob  war  dey  had 
acted  in  shootin'  Marse  Henry,  an'  den  all  at  onct  I  see  'im 
tak  down  de  ole  sword  his  daddy  wore  at  King  Mountain,  an' 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  85 

es  he  fotch  it  down  wid  a  bang  on  de  library  table  lak  he  thort 
de  whole  Spanish  army  wus  dar,  he'd  say:  'Dam  dem  Span 
ish  dogs!  Dey  am  nuffin'  but  hired  cowards,  an'  I  cud  tak 
er  regerment  of  Tennessee  troops  lak  dat  brave  boy  an'  gib 
de  Union  de  leetle  islan'  es  a  birf-day  gif.  Dam  'em,  I  say!' 
O,  ole  Marster  wus  sho'  mad,  an'  when  he  got  mad  in  er 
righteous  cause  he  cud  mak  Unkle  Toby  ershamed  ob  his 
cussin'  record! 

"An'  Miss  Kitty! — I  jes'  can't  talk  erbout  it  widout  chok- 
in'  up.  Fur  two  yeahs  she  went  in  deep  mournin',  his  own 
widder  cudden't  er  tuck  on  wusser,  fur  she  nurver  smiled 
an'  noboddy  wus  'lowed  ter  menshun  Marse  Henry's  name, 
hit  seemed  to  'feet  her  so! 

"But  Time  am  Sorrow's  doctoh,"  sagely  continued  the 
old  man,  "an'  his  poultice  will  draw  out  de  sharpes'  pain! 

"Five  long  yeahs  passed,  an'  Estes  had  got  high  up  in 
pollertics;  he  started  out  on  er  brass  basis  an'  went  frum  post 
master  ter  kongress.  He'd  er  gone  ter  Heaben  ef  he  could 
er  worked  it  through  er  pollitercal  convenshun! 

"An'  now,  whut  you  reckon?  De  news  cum  dat  he  gwine 
ter  marry  Miss  Kitty — an'  sho'  'nuff — hit's  true! 

"When  I  foun'  hit  out,  I  gin  up  all  faith  in  mankind  in 
general  an'  womankind  in  perticler.  But  den  I  felt  sorry 
fur  Miss  Kitty  when  I  larnt  dat  she  was  jes'  gwine  ter  marry 
'im  to  please  'er  old  daddy — fur  she'd  do  ennything  honorbul 
fur  ole  Marster — an'  dat  she  tole  Estes  she  would  marry  'im 
but  dat  she  would  alters  lub  Marse  Henry.  She  nurver  tole 
me,  mind  you,  but  one  night  I  seed  it  plainer  den  wurds  kin 
tell.  I  seed  it  an'  knowed  'er  heart  wus  in  Marse  Henry's 
grabe.  I  seed  er  ghost  ergin,  but  hit  wus  Marse  Henry's 
ghost  dis  time. 

"Dis  wus  de  Chewsdy  night  befo'  Easter,  jes'  five  yeahs 
to  de  night  dat  Marse  Henry  went  away.  De  big  weddin' 
wus  ter  cum  off  de  naixt  night  an'  de  house  wus  full  ob  com- 
p'ny  an'  cakes.  Miss  Kitty  nurver  smiled,  but  hed  gone  er 
bout  all  day  lak  de  Greek  maiden,  spotless  an'  pyore,  dat  de 


86  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

skule  books  tell  us  dey  useter  kill  to  de  wicket  idols  in  de  ole 
times  befo'  de  gates  ob  Troy. 

"Dat  night  I  hed  gone  ter  sleep  thinkin'  erbout  Marse 
Henry,  an'  how  Jap  useter  stan'  in  de  fust  stall  naixt  to  de 
door;  how  Marse  Henry  allers  useter  cum  whistlin'  outen  de 
house  when  he  wanted  me  to  saddle  Jap,  an'  how  we  useter 
talk  erbout  de  hosses,  an'  go  to  de  races  an'  hooraw  if  our 
hoss  won.  I  wus  jes'  thinkin'  how  open  an'  manly  he  wus,  an' 
how  fur  erpart  he  wus  frum  dat  Estes  es  de  two  ends  ob  Eter 
nity,  an'  den,  whut  you  reckon?  I  heurn  Marse  Henry  cum 
outen  de  house  lak  he  did  in  de  days  ob  old.  I  heurd  'im 
cum  down  to  de  stable  door,  an'  pop  his  ridin'  whip  es  er 
signal  fer  me  ter  bring  up  Jap,  an'  den  slash  his  whup  on  his 
leg  while  he  waited — jes'  lak  he  useter  do  hundreds  ob  times 
befo',  an'  all  so  nachul  lak,  jes'  lak  he  wus  gwinter  ride  ole 
Jap  ergin  arter  de  houn's.  An'  den,  sah,  I  heurd  his  voU'e 
jes'  es  plain  es  I  urver  heurn  annything  an'  jes'  lak  he  useter 
say,  only  hit  seemed  so  faint  an'  fur  erway:  'Hello,  Wash, 
saddle  Jap!  It's  time  we  wus  takin'  er  han'  in  de  fun!'  I 
heurd  it  so  plain,  I  jumped  outen  de  bed,  an'  said  es  I  rushed 
to  open  de  door,  'I'm  cumin',  Marse  Henry,  I'm  cumin'!' 
But  when  I  open  de  do'  I  wus  so  diserpinted  I  lak  ter  cried, 
fur  I  cudden't  see  nuffiin'  but  de  trees  in  de  dim  moonlight, 
an'  I  heurd  nuffin'  but  de  hoot  ob  de  owl  ober  in  de  woods. 
I  felt  so  cuis  I  cudden't  go  ter  sleep,  fur  I  wus  sho'  Marse 
Henry's  spirrit  wus  summers  erbout,  an'  dat  he  cudden't  rest 
in  his  grabe  on  ercount  ob  de  weddin',  an'  I  jest  walked  down 
to  de  gate  whar  I  last  seed  'im  five  yeahs  befo'  go  down  de 
road,  nurver  to  cum  back  enny  mo';  eb'rything  wus  so  nachul 
I  thought  I  heurd  Jap's  footfalls  ergin,  an'  den! — whut  wus 
dat  I  seed  all  dressed  in  white  wid  her  long  hair  hangin'  down 
her  back  an'  kneelin  'down  under  de  tree  whar  she  last  seed 
Marse  Henry  erlive,  an'  sobbin'  lak  her  hart  wud  break?  De 
same  ghost  I  seed  dat  night  five  years  ergo.  I  cudden't  stan' 
an  'look  at  sech  sacred  grief  as  dat,  so  I  went  in  my  house 
thinkin'  maybe  de  last  one  wusn't  a  ghost  sho'  'nuff,  but  jes' 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  87 

Miss  Kitty  prayin'  at  de  tree  she  last  seed  Marse  Henry  er- 
live  an'  weepin'  de  las'  time  she  cud  honorably  weep  fur 
him. 

"De  naixt  day  was  de  big  day,  but  I  cudden't  stay  dar 
an'  see  dat  sacrilege.  'Sides  dat,  I  felt  cuis  'bout  seein'  Marse 
Henry's  ghost,  an'  I  knowed  sumpin'  was  gwine  happen.  I 
knowed  it  fur  sho'  when  I  went  in  de  kitchen  next  mohnin' 
an'  heurd  sister  Calline  tell  how  she  found  er  screech  owl  in 
Miss  Kitty's  room  dat  mohnin'.  Sez  I  to  myself:  'Dar!  I 
knows  whut  gwineter  happen  now.  Po'  innercent  angel! 
She'll  nurver  lib  twell  termorrow — but  thang  Gawd  fur  it, 
fur  dat  yudder  Screech  Owl  will  nurver  git  in  her  room!" 

"But  when  I  went  to  de  stable,  dar  was  ernudder  sign: 
Ole  Flint,  Marse  Henry's  ole  pet  houn',  an'  de  bes'  one  dat 
urver  smelt  er  deer  track,  wus  stone  dead  in  de  stall,  dead 
frum  er  snake  bite,  too!  'Dat's  dat  Estes  doin's  ergin,'  sez  I, 
'Po'  innercent  Miss  Kitty!'  An'  de  cows  wus  pawin'  an' 
lowin'  at  de  pastur  bars!  Now  ebry  body  knows  dat  when 
de  milk  cows  go  ter  pawin'  an'  lowin'  in  de  mohnin'  befo' 
brekfus,  somebody  gwinter  die  befo'  night.  I  stood  eben 
dat,  but  I  gin  up  when  I  went  to  de  well  ter  draw  water  fur 
de  horses,  fur  dar  wus  Miss  Kitty  jes'  as  plain  es  she  cud  be, 
laid  out  in  her  coffin  in  her  bridal  dress!" 

"I  drapped  dat  bucket  an'  lit  out  frum  dar!" 

"An'  I  went  to  ole  Marster  an'  beg  'im  to  let  me  go 
down  to  de  lower  place,  five  miles  erway;  an'  I  went  to  de 
lower  place,  five  miles  erway,  an'  dar  I  staid  all  day  long 
waitin'  fur  de  kalamerty  to  cum,  an'  groanin'  in  de  spirrit 
lak  de  proffit  ob  ole  when  he  know  de  buterful  city  gwinter 
fall.  Fur  I  seed  Miss  Kitty  dead  jes'  es  plain  es  I  see  you!" 

"O.  dat  wus  er  terribul  day,  an'  one  dat  I'll  nurver  fur- 
git,  an'  I  sot  dar  in  de  cabin  an'  feasted,  an'  didn't  eat  nuffin 
all  day,  an'  wrastled  wid  de  spirrit  in  prayer,  all  day  long." 

"De  weddin'  wus  ter  cum  off  at  nine  er  clock  at  night.  I 
wus  settin'  in  de  cabin  door  by  myself,  all  de  yudder  darkies 
had  gone  to  de  big  home  fur  de  weddin'  supper — but  I  didn't 


88  SONOS   AND    STORIES 

wanter  go;  I  bed  no  stummic  dat  night — I  wus  all  heart, 
thinkin'  'bout  po'  Marse  Henry  an'  Miss  Kitty's  fun'ral  dat  I 
knowed  wus  bleeged  ter  cum!" 

"Jes  es  de  clock  struck  nine,  I  heard  er  hoss  cum  up  de 
pike,  clatter,  clatter,  bipperty,  bipperty,  bipperty,  an'  1 
jumped  up  mighty  nigh  er  yard  high!" 

"I  knowed  de  soun'  ob  dem  feet!  I'd  kno'  'em  in  cr 
million — dem  was  Jap's  feet  an'  I  hollered,  glory  hallyluyer! 
Befo'  I  knowed  whether  ter  run  under  de  bed  or  out  on  dc 
pike — fur  I  wus  sorter  skeerd  an'  sorter  brave — er  big, 
strong,  fine  lookin'  man,  es  brown  es  er  young  hick'ry  an' 
sinewy  es  er  race  hoss,  pulled  up  his  hoss,  covered  wid  sweat 
an'  foam,  at  de  door.  Pulled  up  his  hoss  quick  lak  an' 
nachul — too  nachul  fur  dis  nigger,  fur  jes'  de  moshun  of  de 
han'  fotch  de  tears  to  my  eyes — fur  dat  hoss  wus  Jap,  de  same 
blood-lak,  cordy-legged,  big-nostriled,  graceful  Jap  of  old!" 

"An  grate  Gawd!  One  look  in  de  blue  eyes  ob  de  rider, 
de  fine  mouf,  de  frank,  manly  face,  now  bronzed  an'  er  trifle 
stern,  hit  wus  Marse  Henry!  Marse  Henry!" 

"I  jumped  up  an'  sed,  'O,  Marse  Henry,  ghost  er  no 
ghost,  I'm  gwinter  hug  you! — an'  I  did,  hugged  him  an' 
Jap,  too." 

"An*  Marse  Henry  laf  an'  sed:  'Wash,  my  boy,  I'm  no 
ghost,  but  flesh  an'  blood,  an'  awful  hongry  flesh  at  dat. 
What  am  you  doin'  way  down  heah?  Gib  us  sumpin'  ter  eat, 
fur  I'm  anxious  to  git  on  to  de  ole  place  an'  we  need  sumpin' 
to  brace  us  up.  Jap  an'  I  have  cum  over  er  hundred  miles 
sence  daylight,  an'  while  dat's  no  long  ride  fur  us,  you  kno' 
we  bleeged  ter  hab  sumpin'  ter  run  on,"  he  sed  laffin'." 

"Lor,  sonny,  you  jes'  orter  seed  me  hustle  erroun'!  An' 
whilst  I  wus  fixin'  'im  sumpin'  to  eat,  he  tole  me  all  erbout 
it,  how  he  hed  jined  Lopez  an'  sailed  frum  Key  West,  an' 
all  erbout  de  fights  he  hed.  An'  he  sed  dat  he  wus  de  onlies' 
one  left  ob  all  his  men,  an'  dat  he  owed  his  life  to  Jap's  heels 
an'  er  Spanish  gineral.  He  sed  dat  when  he  stormed  Las 
Pozas,  his  men  run  ober  de  Spaniards  an'  whupped  'em  in  er 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  89 

twinkle,  an'  dat  sum  ob  his  men  begun  to  hang  de  Spaniards 
in  return  fur  hangin'  sum  ob  dairs  de  yeah  befo',  but  when 
he  foun'  it  out  he  tried  to  stop  it  an'  he  run  in  an'  cut  down 
de  Spanish  gineral  dat  dey  had  hung  up,  but  dat  his  men  got 
mad  eben  wid  him  an'  mutinied  an'  he  hed  to  draw  his  pis 
tols  on  his  men  an'  cut  down  de  officer  at  de  point  ob  his 
guns,  'kase  he  sed  he  wan't  fightin'  er  hangin'  war  but  er 
civilized  war." 

"An  he  sabed  de  officer's  life  an'  exchanged  'im  an'  saunt 
'im  home.  De  papers  wus  right  in  sayin'  Marse  Henry  wus 
arterwards  oberpowered  an'  hed  ter  surrender,  an'  de  dozen 
er  two  left  wus  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  In  vain  Marse 
Henry  beg  'em  to  shoot  'em  lak  soljers,  but  dey  hung  his 
men  befo'  his  eyes,  an'  dey  wooder  hung  him,  but  he  bribed 
de  officer  in  charge  wid  de  gift  ob  Jap  to  'low  'im  to  be  shot 
and  not  hung!" 

"De  naixt  mohnin'  when  dey  led  Marse  Henry  off  to  be 
shot,  an'  when  he  wus  er  mile  or  two  frum  de  lines,  de 
gineral  whose  life  he  hed  sabed  wus  waitin'  at  de  spot  fur 
'im,  an'  commanded  de  squad  to  halt,  an'  den  he  gib  Marse 
Henry  his  side-arms  an'  Jap,  dat  he  foun'  de  officer  wid,  an' 
he  sed  to  Marse  Henry:  'Go,  you  sabed  my  life  onct  at  de 
risk  ob  yo'  own.  I  returns  de  kompliment.'  " 

"An'  den  Marse  Henry  told  me  how  he  hed  went  in  de 
sugar  bizness  an'  made  er  fortune  an'  now  he  cum  back  ergin 
to  lib." 

"But  dat  wus  fo'  yeah  ago,  Marse  Henry,"  sez  I; 
'Why  ant  you  cum  home  befo'  or  write  us  dat  you  still  libin?' 
An'  den  Marse  Henry's  face  grew  dark  es  he  sed:  'Bekase, 
Wash,  Unkle  Robert  wrote  me  befo'  de  war  wus  ended,  dat 
Kitty  wus  married  to  Estes,  an' — 

"  'Dat's  a  lie,  Marse  Henry,'  I  shouted,  es  I  cum  to  my 
senses  ergin  an'  thout  ob  Miss  Kitty  fur  de  fust  time — 'dat's 
er  lie!  Ole  Marster  didn't  write  no  sech  letter  es  dat!  She 
ain't  married  yit — least  wise — dat  is  ter  say — O,  Marse 
Henry,  am  it  nine  erclock  yit?  An'  she  nurver  will  be  fur 


90  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

she's  boun'  ter  die  to-night,  an'  I'm  waitin'  out  heah  to  kno' 
when  to  go  to  de  fun'ral — po'  innercent  angel!'  an'  I  spec  I 
begun  ter  cry. 

"Marse  Henry  look  at  me  stern  lak,  an'  ax  me  what  I 
mean.  Den  I  went  back  an'  tole  'im  all,  an'  I  seed  de  tears 
run  down  his  cheeks  es  I  tole  'im  how  she  hed  loved  an' 
suffered  all  dese  yeahs.  An'  I  tole  'im  'bout  de  ghost  scene 
last  night  an'  how  she  sobbed  under  de  trees,  an'  as  I  tole 
him  I  seed  'im  shake  all  over  lak  er  child  er  sobbin",  an' 
when  I  tole  him  'bout  de  nurver  failin'  death  signs  I'd  seen 
dis  mohnin',  an'  dat  I  spec  right  now  she  dun  dead  er  mar 
ried — 'twould  be  all  de  same  to  her — he  vaulted  wid  one  leap 
in  de  saddle  an'  I  seed  Jap's  tail  fly  up  es  he  plunged  two 
spurs  in  his  side  an'  es  he  shot  erway  in  de  night  I  heurd  'im 
say  sorter  hard  lak:  'Foller  me,  Wash,  fur  I'm  gwinter  take 
er  hand  in  dat  fun'ral!'  " 

"I  jumped  on  er  race  filly  Ole  Marster  hed  in  trainin'  at 
de  lower  place,  an'  I  follered  'im  wid  my  heart  beatin'  er 
drum  in  my  breast,  an'  de  wind  playin'  er  fife  in  my  two 
years!  Lor,  sah,  dat  filly  cud  fly!  but  run  es  she  mout,  dar 
sot  Marse  Henry  allers  jes'  erhaid,  lookin'  lak  er  statue  on 
Jap;  an'  de  ole  hoss  runnin'  lak  er  swamp  buck  wid  de  pack 
at  his  heels!  Runnin',  sah,  lak  he  knowed  whut  wus  up  an' 
dat  ten  minnits  now  wus  wurth  ten  yeahs  termorrow!  An' 
evry  now  an'  den  I'd  ketch  er  glimpse  ob  Marse  Henry's 
back  an'  heah  'im  say:  'Grate  Gawd,  ef  I  kin  only  git  dar 
in  time!" 

"Nobody'll  urver  b'leeve  it,"  continued  the  old  man,  "but 
we  broke  de  five-mile  recurd  dat  night,  sho!  An'  when  we 
cum  to  de  house  it  wus  lit  up  frum  garret  to  cellar,  an'  I 
cud  see  de  guests  in  de  parlors  an'  halls  an'  heah  de  music 
an'  de  lafter.  But  es  I  rid  up  closter,  my  hart  sunk  in  my 
buzum,  an'  we  bofe  pulled  up  wid  er  jerk;  fur  dar,  standin' 
dar  in  de  light  ob  de  bay  winders  wid  flowers  above  an'  belo' 
an'  in  de  lace  ob  de  curtains,  dar  stood  Miss  Kitty!  An'  de 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  91 

orange  blossums  wus  in  her  hair,  an'  a  man  wus  by  her  side, 
an'  dey  wus  shakin'  hans  wid  de  people. 

"Grate  Gawd,  dey  wus  married!" 

"I  looked  at  Marse  Henry  spectin'  to  see  'im  pale  an' 
shaky  lak  I  wus,  an'  mighty  nigh  ready  ter  fall  down  often 
his  hoss,  but  dars  whar  I  overlooked  de  thurrerbred  dat  wus 
in  'im,  an'  stead  ob  bein'  pale,  de  lub  light  wus  in  his  eyes, 
but  he  hed  dat  cuis  hard  smile  on  his  lips  dat  allers  made 
me  think  ob  de  cocked  hammer  ob  a  hair-trigger  durringer." 

"He  spurred  up  clost  to  me  an  jes'  es  nachul  lak  es  ef 
he  wus  tellin'  me  ter  saddle  Jap,  an'  jes'  es  quiet  es  if  he  wus 
gwine  to  church,  he  sez:  'Wash,  be  keerful  now,  fur  you 
may  sabe  er  life  wid  er  level  haid.  I  will  ride  up  to  de  side 
porch,  jes'  whar  it  reaches  to  Jap's  saddle  skirts.  I  mus' 
speak  to  Kitty  once  mo'  befo'  I  go  back  to  Cuba  forcber. 
Slip  in  an'  tell  her  sum  one  wants  to  see  her  quickly,  on  de 
side  porch.  Go,  an'  remember  your  haid!'  " 

"I  wus  glad  ernuf  to  go.  All  de  sarvents  wus  now 
pottrin'  in  to  shake  han's  wid  Miss  Kitty,  arter  de  white  folks 
hed  shook,  an'  I  cum  in  nacherly  wid  de  res'.  De  white  folks 
hed  stood  back  an'  wus  watchin'  our  awkward  way,  an'  de 
room  wus  full  ob  flowers  an'  sweet  sents  an'  hansum  folks." 

"But  Miss  Kitty  jes'  hanted  me — I  cudden't  keep  my 
eyes  cffen  her.  She  wus  es  butiful  es  truth  in  de  halls  ob  de 
angels,  an*  yet  es  sad  es  sorrow  at  de  grabe  ob  her  fust  born. 
She  look  lak  er  queen  bowin'  right  an'  left,  an'  her  grace 
shone  lak  er  pillar  in  a  temple.  She  tried  her  bes'  ter  smile 
on  us  po'  niggers  dat  had  raised  her  an'  lubbed  her  all  her 
life,  but  de  smile  jes'  flickered  'round  her  dark,  sad  eyes  lak 
er  Apri!  sunbeam  tryin'  to  git  out  frum  behind  er  March 
cloud.  When  she  shuck  han's  wid  me  I  seen  two  tears  start 
up  in  her  eyes,  lak  little  silver-side  fish  dat  rise  to  de  surface 
ob  de  lake  fur  air,  an'  I  knowed  she  wus  thinkin'  ob  Jap  an' 
his  rider,  an'  I  cudden't  stan'  it  no  longer,  I  jes'  stuck  my  big 
mouf  up  to  her  lily  bloom  ob  a  yeah  an'  tried  to  say  it  easy, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  de  folks  heurd  it  ober  at  quartahs,  er 


92  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

mile  erway:  "Gawd  bless  you,  Miss  Kitty,  honey!  But  cum 
out  on  de  side  porch,  quick!" 

"Fur  er  secon'  she  looked  at  me  lak  she  thort  I  wus 
crazy,  an'  den  I  tried  ergin,  steppin'  on  her  butiful  dress  an' 
little  white  slipper,  I  got  up  so  close  an'  whispered  so 
yearnestly: 

"Miss  Kitty!  Miss  Kitty!!  fur  Gawd's  sake  cum  out  on 
de  side  porch,  quick!" 

"She  nodded  her  haid,  an'  I  seed  she  thort  sumbody  wus 
in  distress,  an'  es  I  went  out,  I  seed  her  excuse  herself  to  de 
guests  an'— an' — vval,  de  feller  dat  was  standin'  in  de  winder 
wid  'er.  an'  den  she  gethered  her  trail  in  her  lef  han'  an' 
follered  me  out  es  stately  es  Pharo's  darter  follered  de  nig 
gers  ob  old." 

Here  the  old  man  paused,  and  a  look  of  triumph  glinted 
in  his  dim  eye,  as  he  said,  "Dar  am  sum  scenes  in  life  fixed 
on  our  mern'ry  so  dey  git  plainer  es  we  gro'  older,  an'  dis 
wus  one.  De  happiness  ob  two  libes  wus  at  stake,  an'  I 
trimbled  so  I  cudden't  think,  fur  I  knowed  a  wurd  too  soon 
or  too  late  or  out  ob  place,  woulder  ruined  ebrything.  De 
poppin'  ob  er  match  might  er  brought  on  er  shootin'  an'  de 
whinny  ob  a  black  hoss  es  he  stood  blacker  in  de  night,  mout 
er  turned  er  weddin'  inter  er  fun'ral." 

"I  glanced  at  de  side  porch — dar  sot  er  black  hossman 
on  er  steed  es  black  es  he  wus.  Not  er  muscle  moved,  but  I 
seed  two  steel-blue  eyes  shine  eben  in  de  darkness.  Then 
out  cum  Miss  Kitty,  so  nachul  lak  an'  soft  an  easy: 

"  'What  is  it,  Wash,  who  wishes  to  see  me?' 

"I  pinted  to  de  hoss-man.  Den  I  heurd  her  step  es  she 
walked  ercross  to  de  shadder,  an'  den  I  heurd  er  voice  cum 
outer  dc  shadder:  'Oh,  Kitty,  my  darlin',  have  you  indeed 
forgotten  me?" 

"To  my  dyin"  day  I'll  see  her  es  she  hesertated,  tried  to 
advance,  stopped,  staggered,  an'  fell  into  de  outstretched 
arms  ob  de  hoss-man,  as  she  exclaimed  pitifully:  'Dear 
hart,  I  tole  them  all  de  time  I  wus  yores!' 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  93 

"An'  what  you  reckon  Marse  Henry  dun?  He  kissed  dat 
man's  wife  scanlus,  time  an'  ergin,  an'  stead  ob  spurrin' 
erway  wid  her  lak  I  spected  to  see  'im  do,  an'  lak  ennybody 
else  wooder  dun,  he  jes'  walked  wid  'er,  dead  fainted  es  she 
wus,  right  inter  de  parlor  whar  dey  all  wus,  an'  laid  her 
gently  down  on  a  sofer,  an'  den  he  turned  'round  lak  er 
majah  gineral  reviewin'  troops,  an'  he  said:  'Uncle  Robert, 
I  have  a  word  to  say  heah!' 

'Wai,  sah,  'mazement  wan't  de  wurd.  De  wimmen 
screamed  an'  de  men  looked  lak  dey  wanted  to.  Eben  Ole 
Marster  cudden't  do  nuffin'  but  stare.  Estes  cum  to  fust  an' 
made  er  quick  movement  to  got  to  de  sofer  whar  Miss  Kitty 
wus,  quiet  es  er  spirrit.  But  when  Marse  Henry  seed  'im, 
his  eyes  flashed  lak  two  stars,  an'  I  dodged  my  haid  spectin' 
to  heah  er  pistol  shot  naixt,  but  I  didn't,  only  dis  frum 
Marse  Henry,  an'  it  cum  frum  'im  lak  er  battery,  es  he  laid 
one  han'  on  er  instrument  dat  hed  bin  all  through  de  Cuban 
fight: 

"'Stand  whar  you  am,  sah!  fur  I'm  heah  to  settle  wid 
you  fust!' 

"An'  then  he  turned  loose.  Gawd,  sah,  he  towered  ober 
Estes  lak  er  lion  dat  hed  cum  home  an'  foun'  er  cur  in  his 
house.  An'  all  de  time  his  eyes  shone  like  lightning  an'  his 
face  was  sot  lak  er  jedge's,  an'  his  voice  was  lak  er  god's! 
He  pulled  de  forged  letter  out  an'  ole  Marster  read  it,  an' 
Miss  Kitty  cum  to  an'  read  it,  an'  he  tole  Miss  Kitty  how 
he  writ  to  her  time  an'  ergin  an'  at  las'  got  dis  letter.  An' 
she  cried  lak  er  hart  would  break,  an'  she  tole  how  she  hed 
writ  to  him  time  an'  ergin  befo'  she  heurd  he  wus  dead,  an' 
nurver  got  no  letter,  an'  befo'  I  knowed  it  I  jes'  hollered 
out:  'O,  hit  pays  to  be  postmaster,  hit  do!' 

"An,  sah,  whut  do  you  reckon  ole  Marster  dun?  He  jes' 
hugged  Marse  Henry  an'  wrung  his  han'  an'  call  'im  his 
son,  an'  den  he  got  so  mad  he  lost  his  ole  haid,  an"  cum 
runnin'  out  in  de  hall,  an'  sed:  'Wash!  Wash!!  Bring  me 


94 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


my  pistols,  Wash!  The  forgin'  villain  to  dare  marry  a  gen 
tleman's  darter!* 

"In  er  minnit  he  cum  runnin'  back  wid  er  pair  ob  dur- 
rungers  in  his  han's  an  ernudder  pair  in  his  eyes,  an'  he 
rushed  up  to  Marse  Henry  an*  sed:  'Henry,  my  son,  you 
shan't  kill  *im!  Let  you  ole  unkle  hab  dat  pleasure.  The 
forger!  Why,  he  married  my  darter,  an"  I  thort  he  wus  er 
gentleman!"  " 

"But  Estes  wus  gone,  gone  to  parts  unknown.  An" 
Miss  Kitty  wus  laffin'  an'  cryin',  in  Marse  Henry's  arms. 
beio'  all  de  guests  an*  ebrybody.  an*  oie  Marster  stop  sorter 
shot-lak,  when  he  seed  'er  fur  he  want  prepared  fur  dat,  an* 
Marse  Henry  la  fed  an'  pulled  out  ernudder  paper — er  little 
slip  ob  paper,  an'  den  he  sed:  'In  de  sweetness  ob  dis  hour 
I  furgib  'im,  Unkle,  Besides,  he  ain't  married  yore  darter. 
Dis  little  instrument  am  jes'  five  yeahs  de  oldes*.  I'm  sorry. 
Unkle,'  he  sed  wid  er  twinkle  in  hes  eyes  dat  belied  his  appol- 
lergy,  'but  I  married  Kitty  de  night  beio'  I  ief  five  yeahs  ago. 
Heah  is  de  license  an'  dis  am  Squire  Sander's  signature — an" 
— why  hello,  Squire,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  ergin!"  es  Squir- 
Sanders  an"  all  de  folks  he  knowed  flocked  erroun"  'im  to 
shake  his  han'." 

"Gawd,  sah,  dat  wus  er  happy  night!  But  nuffin'  wud 
do  Ole  Marster  but  dat  dey  mu£"  be  married  ober  ergin  by 
de  Piskolopinm  preacher,  an'  in  gran'  style,  too." 

"So  in  erbont  er  hour  Maise  Henry  cum  out.  dressed 
in  de  unerfonn  ob  er  Majah  Gineral.  an"  dey  wus  married 
ergin — an'  de  han'somes*  pair  dat  eber  sed  yes  to  de  preach 
er.  An'  when  I  went  up  to  shake  dey  hand'.  Marse  Henry 
tell  me  to  stan'  by  hes  side,  an'  den  he  pull  out  ernudder 
paper,  one  jes'  freshly  writ,  an'  he  read  it  to  all  de  folks — 
thang  Gawd,  he  bad  bought  me  from  ole  Marster!" 

'  An'  den  he  turned  round  to  me,  nigger  dat  I  wus.  an' 
he  sed  wid  er  tear  in  hes  manly  eye:  'Wash,  a  true  frien' 
aoi  a  jewel  on  de  finger  ob  life.  I  fout  too  hard  for  de  free- 


FROM    TEHNESSEE. 

dom  ob  others  to  see  my  bes*  frien*  a  slave.  I  bare  booghf 
yon  frum  Unkle  Robert,  as  dis  bill  ob  sale  will  show.  Take 
it;  you  are  free!'" 

"7  drapped  at  bis  feet  an'  cried  an7  kissed  his  ban*,  bat 
he  pulled  me  np,  an'  es  he  put  five  big  gol'  pieces  in  my 
ban'  he  lafed  an'  sed:  'An'  these  are  from  my  wife,  for 
valoabul  assistance  rendered  at  her  fun'ralf 

"An'  as  I  kissed  her  sweet  ban',  Gawd  bless  her,  she 
looked  np  at  Marse  Henry  lamn'  by  her  side,  an'  de 
she  gib  him  was  Uk  de  break  ob  day  in  Heaven!** 


TO  A  WILD  ROSE  OX  AX  IXDIAX  GRAVE. 

IN  the  pasture  where  the  grasses  are  die  first  to  herald 
spring, 

And  the  meadow  lark  flits  upward  on  his  parachntal  wing, 
Where  the  wild  vines  weave  their  netting  and  the  wild  winds 

wander  free, 

Thou  art  blooming  in  thy  beauty  now,  sweet  rose  of  Chero 
kee. 

All  around  thee  is  that  freedom,  part  and  pared  of  thy  file, 
Untutored  is  thy  every  grace  with  native  sweetness  riie. 
The  spirit  of  the  maiden  whom  the  Choctaw  chieftain  stole*— 
Thou  sprangest  from  her  lonely  grave,  the  rosebod  of  her 
sonL 


Didst  thon  weave  those  golden  Vi**^  'mid  the 

long  gone  by, 

In  the  loom  of  Indian  summer  with  the  «J"taM»*  of  the  sky? 
And  that  rare  and  dainty  perfume,  liiiling  hmhcirt  of  thy 

birth?— 
'Tis  the  infant  breath  of  nature  in  the  May-day  of  the  earth. 


96  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

In  those  rows  of  yellow  pistils,  platoon  formed,  with  spears  of 

stars, — 
Didst  thou  pilfer  from  the  lark's  breast  while  he  sang  his 

sweetest  bars? 
And  that  blush  of  faintest  crimson,  tinging  soft  thy  petal's 

peak? — 
'Tis  the  red  bird's  mirrored  plumage  in  the  dew-drop  on  thy 

cheek. 

In  those  drooping,  twining  branches,  bending  low  in  jeweled 

bloom, 
Thou  but  weavest  wreaths  of  beauty  for  the  sleep  of  Beauty's 

tomb, 
And   that   snowy,  clust'ring  garland   springing  upward   and 

above — 
Tis  the  risen  soul  of  virtue  in  the  robes  of  virtue's  love. 

Ah!  'tis  many  circling  seasons  since  thou  first  bloomed  o'er 
the  mound, 

Where  the  Indian  maiden  slumbered  and  the  wild  fawn  wan- 
der'd  round; 

Since  thou  heardst  the  Spanish  bugle,  saw  De  Soto's  steel- 
clad  lines, 

As  they  trampled  in  their  armor  o'er  thy  timid,  clinging 
vines. 

But  through  all  those   changing  seasons,   thou  hast  reared 

thy  modest  head — 

Nature's  shaft  of  living  marble  o'er  the  ashes  of  thy  dead, 
Teaching  all  the  world  a  lesson,  older  than  the  spangled  sky — 
The  good  shall  live  forever,  and  the  pure  shall  never  die. 

*The  legend  of  the  Cherokee  Rose  is,  that  a  Cherokee 
maiden,  being  stolen  by  a  neighboring  chief,  died,  longing  to 
go  back  to  her  tribe.  A  rose  was  afterwards  found  blooming 
on  her  grave,  and  by  the  Indians  named  in  her  honor. 


O 


FROM    TENNESSEE  97 

A  HARVEST  SONG. 

THE  mellow  days  of  autumn 

How  I  love  to  see  them  come, 
When  the  harvest  army  marches 
To  the  bittern's  noisy  drum. 


Every  day  is  full  of  sweetness,  ev'ry  night  is  full  of  song — 
And  the  air  is  full  of  ripeness  as  the  breezes  sweep  along. 
The  mocking-bird,  awakened  by  the  flood  of  soothing  light, 
Weaves  a  golden  thread  of  music  in  the  silver  woof  of  night, 
While  the  rustling  of  a  thousand  flashing  blades  amid  the  corn, 
Like  an  army  in  the  moonlight  waits  the  reaper  of  the  morn. 

O,  the  mellow  days  of  autumn 

How  I  love  to  see  them  come, 
When,  like  an  Indian  princess, 
Stands  the  maple,  and  the  gum. 

All  the  earth  is  full  of  beauty,  all  the  sky  in  azure  fold, 

And  the  sunshine  in  its  softness  melts  in  dreamy  waves  of 

gold, 
The  wild  goose  flying  southward  sounds  his  startled,  clarion 

note, 
And  the  trumpet  of  the  harvest    march  is  in  his    echoing 

throat, 
While  the  flashing  of  a  thousand  cotton  banners*    'mid  the 

corn, 
Like  our  skies,  are  red  at  evening  but  are  silver  in  the  morn. 

O,  the  mellow  nights  of  autumn 

When  the  harvest  moon  is  queen 
And  the  stars,  like  little  reapers, 

Flash  their  tiny  blades  between, 

How  they  thrill  me  with  a  sweetness  that  is  oversweet  to  last, 


98  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Like  a  glory  of  the  present  in  a  halo  of  the  past, 

And  they  fill  my  heart  with  achings,  with  a  sweet  and  tender 

pain, 

Like  the  mem'ry  of  a  music  that  I  ne'er  shall  hear  again, 
And  they  fill  my  soul  with  longings  and  they  fill  my  eyes  with 

tears, 
Like  a  half  forgotten  laughter  in  the  long  forgotten  years. 

O,  the  mellow  nights  of  autumn 

They  are  coming  in  a  throng, 
And  the  harvest  moon  is  with  them 

And  she  sings  the  reaper's  song. 

*The  cotton  bloom  is  white  in  the   morning    and    red    at 
evening. 


THE  OLD  MEADOW  SPRING. 

DOWN  through  the  red-top  blooming  in  the  sun, 
On  to  the  vine-covered  trees, 
A  barefoot  boy  through  the  path  I'd  run 
Like  a  swallow  on  the  evening  breeze. 
Quick  to  the  big  rocks  cropping  from  the  ground 

'Neath  the  trees  where  the  sweet  birds  sing, 
With  a  leap  and  a  bound  I'd  clamber  down 
To  drink  at  the  meadow  spring. 

O,  the  old  meadow  spring, 
To  its  moss-grown  banks  I'd  cling, 
And  with  hat  for  a  gourd  I  would  quaff  like  a  lord 
The  cool,  sparkling  waters  of  the  spring. 

Pouring  from  the  rocks  'mid  pebbles  so  white, 

And  fringing  the  moss  with  pearl, 
Then  speeding  away  in  flashes  of  light 

To  the  pool  with  its  eddying  whirl. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  99 

The  wild  mint  wafts  its  odor  from  below 
On  the  sweep  of  the  cool  wind's  wing, 

While  the  dark  shining  row  of  the  blackberries  grow 
On  the  brink  of  the  meadow  spring. 

O,  the  old  meadow  spring, 
Heaven's  drink  to  man  you  bring, 
With  the  mint  and  the  red  of  the  purpling  berry  head 
All  mirror'd  in  the  depths  of  the  spring. 

Stretched  on  the  green  grass,  musing  in  the  shade 

(To  the  drip,  tinkle,  drip,  of  the  stream) 
I  wonder  if  above  such  a  spot  was  made 

For  spirits  in  their  heavenly  dream. 
Watching   the   water-witch   dancing  about 

On  the  waves  in  her  silvery  ring, 
With  a  laugh  and  shout  I'd  put  her  to  rout 

And  plunge  in  the  meadow  spring. 

O,  the  old  meadow  spring, 
How  I  long  once  more  to  fling 
All  my  burdens  aside  in  your  silvery  tide, 
And  be  a  boy  at  the  meadow  spring. 


THE  WOLF  HUNT  ON  BIG  BIGBY. 

1SEE  de  dudes  hev  got  up  er  new  sport  up  ter  Yankee 
Ian',"  said  Old  Wash  the  other  day.  "Dey  calls  it  Golf 
huntin'.  Hes  it  got  enny  thing  ter  do  wid  wolf  huntin'?" 
he.  asked.  "Ef  it  hes,  I  jes'  wanter  say  I'll  go  to  New  Jarsey 
ter  see  it  ergin,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  sat  down  on  the 
wood-pile  and  laughed  as  if  he  was  tickled  immensely. 

"Why,  no,  it  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  wolf  hunting. 
Why  do  you  ask?"  I  said. 


I00  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

"Wai,  de  names  sounded  sorter  lak,  an'  de  folks  dat  plays 
it  am  de  same  sorter  fellers  dat  cum  down  to  our  home  way 
back  in  de  fall  ob  '35  ter  hunt  wolves.  But  let  me  put  dis 
ax  in  de  kitchen  cellar  fus',"  he  said,  as  he  hobbled  across  the 
yard.  "I  nurver  cud  tell  enny  thing  wid  er  ax  or  er  hoe 
starin'  me  in  de  face  an'  'mindin'  me  dat  man  wus  made  ter 
saw  wood. 

"Dis  country  ain't  whut  hit  useter  be  when  Marse  Bill 
Young  settled  down  on  Big  Bigby  way  back  'bout  ateen- 
twenty-fo'.  You  nurver  seen  sech  Ian'  in  all  yore  life — de 
grandes'  forests  dat  eber  sot  on  de  face  of  de  yearth,  an' 
de  cane  so  big  dat  you  hed  ter  cut  roads  through  it  lak  it 
wus  er  wilderness.  An'  de  new  groun'!  Wai,  sah,  I  nurver 
seed  sich  crops  sence  de  good  Lord  made  me!  Why,  down 
in  de  new  groun'  dat  we  cleaned  up  we  didn't  hafter  plant 
but  half  er  grain  er  corn " 

"Half  a  grain!     Why?" 

"Why,  good  gracious,  sah,  er  haf  'er  grain  made  er  stalk 
twenty  foot  high!  Whut  we  wanter  plant  er  whole  grain  fer, 
an'  haf  sich  high  corn  we  cudden't  pull  it  wid  wun  ob  dese 
yeah  fire  ladders!  An'  punkins!  Marse  Bill  Young  tried  'em 
wun  yeah  in  de  black  locus'  new  groun',  an'  arter  dat  he  gin 
strick  orders  fur  nobody  ter  nurver  ter  plant  er  punkin  seed 
in  ten  miles  er  his  farm  ergin." 

"Why?"  I  asked.  The  old  man  scratched  his  head  as  if 
pondering  whether  to  give  his  reasons  or  not. 

"Bekose,"  he  said,  "de  punkin  vines  tuck  de  plantashun, 
and  sum  ob  'em  run  for  miles  up  in  de  hills,  an'  de  naixt 
spring  when  Ole  Marster  went  out  ter  survey  an'  preempt 
mo'  Ian',  he  cum  back  home  mad  es  de  debbil,  an'  sed  ebry 
mile  or  two,  fur  ten  miles  eround,  sum  po'  white  folks  frum 
de  mountins  hed  cum  out  in  de  spring  ob  de  yeah,  an'  whar 
eber  dey  foun'  er  punkin  dey  hed  squatted  on  de  Ian',  scooped 
out  de  punkin,  built  er  chimbly  in  wun  eend,  put  in  er  door 
an'  winders,  an'  wus  libbin  dar  mighty  cheerful  lak  an'  con- 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  IOI 

tented  twell  dey  cud  build  'em  er  little  bigger  home.  Ole 
Marster'd  owned  haf  de  county  ef  it  hand't  been  fur  dat, 
sho'!" 

"Wash,"  I  said,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  eye,  "you 
have  gone  to  lying  in  your  old  age." 

"Grate  Gord,"  he  said,  with  a  look  such  as  Elijah  cast 
on  the  prophets  of  Baal,  "thet  enny  wun  should  excuse  me 
ob  dat  in  my  ole  aige!  An'  me  tellin'  whut  I  seed  wid  my 
own  eyes  an'  heurd  Ole  Marster  say,  too.  But  dat  ain't  heah 
nor  dar.  I'se  tellin'  you  'bout  de  wolf  hunt. 

"Dar  wus  er  ole  she  wolf  dat  libbed  down  in  de  cane  dat 
wus  jes'  er  little  de  bes'  wolf  enny  body  eber  seed.  She  jes' 
libbed  on  our  sheep  an'  horgs,  an'  dar  want  no  dorg  cud  bes' 
her.  Ole  Marster  tried  hees  pack  er  houn's  on  'er,  an'  she 
cleaned  'em  up  in  ten  minits.  Den  Cap'n  Jim  Estes  tried 
hees  pack  on  'er,  an  dey  all  cum  home  lookin'  lak  rigiment 
flags  arter  de  battle  ob  Waterloo.  Den  dey  raised  er  crowd 
ob  de  boss  fightin'  dorgs  ob  de  settlement — de  brindled  kind 
an'  de  b'ar-fightin'  kind — an'  dey  all  hem  de  ole  wolf  up  in  de 
cane  an'  rush  in  ter  de  tune  ob  'Hail,  de  Konk'rin'  Hero 
Cum,'  but,  bless  yore  soul,  sah,  in  erbout  five  minits  dey  all 
cum  out  howlin'  'De  Gal  I  Lef  Benin'  Me!' 

"Den  de  whole  settlement  riz  up  in  arms.  Dar  want  er 
man  dar  dat  dat  ole  wolf  hadn't  wusted  hees  dorg,  an'  I've 
alters  noticed  dat  when  you  hurt  er  man's  dorg  you  jes'  es 
well  hit  hees  chilluns.  Hit  makes  'im  er  heap  madder.  We'd 
er  whipped  de  British  long  'fo'  we  did  ef  dey  hed  cum  ober 
heah  an'  'stead  ob  taxin'  us  widout  misrepresentashun  dey'd 
cuffed  sum  ob  our  no-'count  dorgs  erround.  Dis  whole  coun 
try  woulder  riz  an'  whipped  'em  out  in  three  days.  Ole 
Patrick  Henry  an'  Boston  Massacre  wodden  er  bin  in  it. 

"But  Ole  Marster  wus  a  jus  man,  an'  he  sed  dat  wolf 
wus  er  free-born  'Merican  wolf,  an'  no  man  should  ambush 
her  an'  kill  'er  wid  er  rifle.  She  shud  have  er  fair  chance  an' 
er  fair  fight  if  she  et  ebry  pig  on  hees  place.  Ef  dey  had  dorgs 


I02  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

good  enough  ter  kill  'er,  all  right;  ef  dey  didn't  she  mout 
jes'  lib  on.  O,  Ole  Marster  wus  a  white  man,  I  tells  you;  an' 
hees  wurd  went  in  dat  settlement.  So  dey  jes'  gib  up  an'  let 
de  ole  wolf  have  it  her  way. 

"Not  long  arter  dat  Ole  Marster  went  to  New  York  on 
bizness,  an'  ter  hev  er  good  time  at  de  theaters  an'  sich. 
Ole  Marster  wus  er  swell  when  de  'cashyun  riz — but  he  didn't 
let  it  rise  too  often.  When  he  come  back  he  sorter  laugh  an' 
say: 

"  'Washington,  I've  invited  de  New  Jarsey  huntin'  club 
down  ter  do  up  de  ole  wolf  in  de  Big  Bigby  cane  brake. 
Dey'll  bring  er  dozen  imported  Roosh'n  wolf  houn's  dat 
dey  say  am  prize  fighters,  an'  will  rid  us  ob  de  ole  witch.' 

"  'All  right,'  sez  I.  'Marster,  I'll  sho'  see  dat  dey  finds 
de  enemy.' 

"Wai,  sah,  in  erbout  two  weeks  er  mo'  heah  dey  all  cum, 
an'  bless  yore  life,  honey,  you  nurver  did  see  sich  swells  es 
dey  wus.  Dey  hed  on  high  silk  hats,  an'  grate  white  collars, 
an'  biled  shuts,  an'  speckled  cravats,  an'  satin  vests,  an'  cor 
duroy  pants,  an'  pump-soled  boots.  An'  you  b'leeve  whut 
I  say?  Sho'  'nuff!  Wai,  sah,  I'll  swear  dey  hed  sho'  nuff 
white  folks  ter  wait  on  'em!  To'  Gord  hit's  er  fac'l  Huh! 
Bless  yore  soul,  we  niggers  didn't  'sociate  wid  dem,  dough. 
Dey  ain't  no  'ristocratic  nigger  gwine  'sociate  wid  secon'- 
class  white  folks.  An'  de  dorgs!  Now  you  heurd  my  horn! 
Dey  fotch  er  dozen  ob  de  slickes'-lookin',  big-haided,  flap- 
yeared,  wus-lookin"  houn'  dorgs  you  eber  seed,  chained  two 
an  'two,  an'  er  man  jes'  ter  take  keer  ob  'em.  But  I  'spected 
sumpin  wus  wrong  soon  es  I  seed  'em,  an'  dat  night  when 
Marster  set  out  a  decanter  ob  fus-class  mountin'  whisky  wid 
lump-sugar  an'  mint,  an'  ax  'em  ter  take  er  drink,  an'  dey  all 
'fuse  kase  dey  say  dar  'stummicks  cudn'  stan'  sich  crude 
licker,'  an'  dey  would  jes'  take  er  little  claret  wine  dey  hed 
in  dere  trunks,  den  I  knowed  de  whole  layout  cudn't  bag  er 
kildee.  Wai,  sah,  dey  didn't  do  nuffin'  but  talk  erbout  de 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  103 

pedergree  ob  dem  houn's  an'  whut  hit  cost  ter  git  'em  heah, 
an'  how  menny  wolves  dey  kill  in  Roosher  in  wun  day,  an' 
how  sabage  dey  wus,  an'  sum  ob  de  niggers  wus  list'nin'  at 
de  winders  an'  didn't  hab  no  mo'  sense  den  to  b'leeve  it,  an' 
hit  spread  all  ober  the  plantashun  an'  skeered  de  pickerninies 
so  dey  all  sleep  wid  dey  haids  under  de  kiver  dat  night. 

"Wai,  de  naixt  day  Ole  Marster  mounted  'em  an'  dey 
blowed  dey  horns  an'  got  de  houn's  an'  de  keeper  an'  went  off 
in  gran'  style.  I  rid  er  gray  mule  an'  went  erlong  ter  show 
'em  de  game.  Wai,  we  wa'nt  no  time  gettin'  dar,  fur  de  ole 
wolf  hed  er  cane  swamp  whar  she  libbed  an'  wus  boss  in,  an' 
ebry  body  knowed  it. 

"Hit  muster  bin  de  wrong  time  ob  be  moon  fur  de  dorgs 
er  de  right  time  ob  de  moon  fur  de  wolf — enny  way  we  struck 
her  in  wun  ob  her  wo'st  moods.  Hit  peered  ter  me  she'd 
bin  pinin'  all  her  life  fur  er  pack  ob  Roosh'n  wolf  houn's  an' 
dude  hunters,  an'  I  hev  no  doubt  ef  she'd  bin  axed  into  Del- 
monicy's  ter  name  her  bill  ob  fare  she'd  er  named  er  dozen 
Roosh'n  wolf  houn's  on  de  half  shell — dem  dat's  got  confi 
dence  in  deysels  an'  am  fat  an'  sassy.  I  can't  'spress  ter  you 
how  happy  an'  delighted  an'  highly  complimented  she  wus 
when  she  seed  dese  hunters  hed  imported  'em  fo'  thousand 
miles  jes'  fer  her  special  benefit.  Fur  fear  dey  might  think 
she  was  lacking'  in  professional  kurtesy  she  cum  out  ob  her 
lair,  in  er  nice  cleared  place,  an'  met  de  furriners  wid  de 
blandes'  smile.  Den  she  back  hersef  ergin  er  clay  root  ter 
protec'  her  r'ar  an'  got  down  to  bizness. 

"Boss,  dat  fight  wus  soon  ober.  De  fus'  fool  houn'  dat 
went  in  she  broke  hees  back  wid  wun  snap  ob  her  steel-trap 
jaws — de  naixt  wun  got  hees  throat  cut  lak  er  razor.  Dem 
furrin  dorgs  hed  er  furrin  language,  an'  de  dyin'  yelp  ob  de 
fus'  wus  er  heabenly  translashun  fur  de  yuthers,  an'  dey  lit 
out.  Dey  all  went  back  ter  Roosher  by  way  ob  de  Norf 
Pole  an'  de  ismus  of  Cant-Ketchem — an'  dey  went  in  er  hurry. 
De  dudes  got  mad  an'  called  an'  hollered,  but  dey  wan't  er 
furrin  houn'  in  the  county  in  two  hours. 


104  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

"But  de  fun  hed  jes'  begun.  De  ole  lady  bein'  diser- 
p'inted,  got  b'ilin'  mad.  She  kerried  de  wa'  into  dudedom. 
She  run  de  keeper  up  er  black-gum  tree  an  den  lit  into  de 
hunters — an'  you  orter  seed  'em  cum  outer  dat  swamp.  Some 
ob  'em  didn't  stop  runnin'  fer  ten  miles!  De  ole  lady  fit  lak 
she  'membered  'bout  sucklin  two  genuine  white  men  onct, 
way  back  in  de  days  ob  Unkle  Rum'lus  an'  Unkle  Remus,  an' 
she  kno'd  whut  de  right  kind  ob  article  wus,  an'  now  in  her 
old  aige  ter  be  played  off  on  by  er  lot  ob  counterfeits  on 
humanity  an'  imported  dorgs  was  too  much.  De  darkies  on 
de  place  say  dey  heurd  de  keeper  up  in  de  tree  prayin'  in 
French  all  night. 

"De  naixt  day  arter  we  got  'em  off  by  de  fus'  stage,  Ole 
Marster  lacter  laf  hesef  ter  death,  an'  he  say  he  gwineter  pe- 
tishun  congress  ter  put  de  ole  wolf  on  de  flag  by  de  side  ob  de 
'Merican  eagle. 

"But  how  you  reckin  we  got  dat  ole  wolf  at  las'?  Why, 
me  an'  er  nur'r  nigger  went  possum  huntin'  wun  night  wid 
three  good  dorgs,  an'  we  got  her  up  thinkin'  we  hed  de  bes' 
coon  in  de  swamp.  You  know  er  nigger'll  fight  all  night  wid 
de  debbil  ef  he  think  its  er  coon  er  'possum,  an'  twixt  us  all 
we  manage  to  beat  de  ole  lady  ter  death.  When  we  kilt  her 
an'  struck  er  light  an'  seed  whut  we  hed,  we  drapped  her  an' 
got  outer  dar  faster'n  we  went  in.  Hit  skeers  me  ter  think 
uv  it  now!  Whut  big  things  sum  folks  do  widout  in- 
tendin'  it!" 

H-H* 

THE  SLEEP  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

'""pHEY  are  sleeping  in  the  valley  and  on  the  glist'ning  hills, 
1       And  in  the  wooded  nooks  beside  the  winter's   frozen 

rills. 

They  slumber  in  their  glory  with  the  perfume  on  their  breath, 
Their  beauty  and  their  brightness  fled  before  the  touch  of 
death. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  IO5 

Their  bloom  life  is  a  memory  —  their  sweetness  but  a  dream 
Of  summer  days  and  shaded  ways,  and  nights  of  starry  gleam. 

They  are  sleeping  in  the  valley  but  they'll  wake  some 

joyous  day 
And  spring  will  stand  before  us  in  the  bridal  dress  of 

May. 

They  are  sleeping  in  the  valley,  and  they  wait  the  Master's 

call— 

The  rose-buds  of  our  hearth-stone  and  the  lilies  of  our  hall, 
The  violets  that  bloomed  down  in  the  hot-house  of  our  heart, 
The  blue-bells  of  our  cradles  —  how  the  quick  tears  upward 

start! 

Their  child-life  is  a  memory  —  their  visit  but  a  dream 
Of  childish  ways  and  prattling  days  —  how  long  ago   they 

seem! 

They  are  sleeping  in  the  valley  but  they'll  wake  with 

joyous  glee 
When  the  Master  holds  His  dear  hands  out,  and  says: 

"Come  unto  me." 


"HUNTIN'  O'  THE  QUAIL." 

DID  you  ever  go  a-huntin'  on  a  crisp  November  morn, 
When  the  frost  had  hung  his  laces  on  the  locust  and 

the  thorn, 

When  the  air  was  like  a  tonic  an'  the  sky  was  like  a  tone, 
An'  a  kind  o'  huntin'  fever  seemed  a  burnin'  in  your  bone? 
O,  the  music  in  the  clatter  as  you  canter  to  the  fiel's! 
O,  the  echo  in  the  patter  of  the  dogs  upon  your  heels! 
What  a  picture  for  a  painter  when  the  setters  make  a  stand 
While  that  dreamy  gleamy  silence  seems  to  settle  on  the  land! 


106  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Are  you  ready,  boys? 

"—Ready!" 
(Click!  click!  click!) 
Come,  steady,  dogs! 

"—Steady!" 

(Click,  click,  click!) 

Then  'tis  whir-ir-ir-ir! 

Bang!    Bang!    Bang! 

An'  'tis  whir-ir-ir-ir! 

Bang!    Bang!    Bang! 

An'  your  heart  jumps  like  a  rabbit  tho'  you  didn't  touch  a 

tail- 
Still,  you'd  like  to  live  forever — just  a-huntin'  o'  the  quail! 

Did  you  ever  stop  for  luncheon  on  a  bright  November  noon, 
Where  the  pines  were  lispin'  lullabies  an'  the  winds  were  all 

a-croon, 

Where  a  spring  was  just  a-singin'  an'  a-dancin'  down  a  hill, 
An'  you  tapped  the  tank  where  Nature  runs  her  everlastin' 

still? 
How  the  beaten  biscuits   fade  beneath  the   fervor   of  your 

kiss! 

How  the  sandwiches  are  laid  beneath  a  blighting  that  is  bliss! 
What  an  appetite  for  eatin'  you  discover  you  have  got — 
O,  wouldn't  you  be  champion  were  you  half  as  good  a  shot? 
Are  you  ready,  boys? 

"—Ready!" 

(Tap,  tap,  tap!) 

Are  you  steady,  boys? 

" — Steady!" 
(Tap,  tap,  tap!) 
Then  'tis  guggle,  guggle,  guggle,    guggle! 

Pop!    Pop!    Pop! 

An'  'tis  google,  google,  google,  google! 
Pop!    Pop!    Pop! 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  107 

'Till  you  toss  away  the  bottle  as  you  would  a  twice-told-tale  — 
O,  ain't  it  just  too  fine  a  sport!  —  this  huntin'  o'  the  quail? 

Did  you  ever  come  from  huntin'  on  a  sweet  November  eve, 
When  the  sun  was  sorter  sorry  such  a  dreamy  day  to  leave, 
When  your  heart  was  like  a  feather,  an'  your  bag  was 

like  a  lead, 

An'  the  liltin'  of  a  lark  was  like  a  vesper  overhead? 
An'  you  found  a  poem  strayin'  an'  a-swayin'  on  the  gate 
While  she  chides  you  for  a-stayin'  with  Diana  out  so  late! 
O,  of  course  you  stop  to  greet  'er  an'  to  give  'er  half  your 

birds  — 

Ev'ry  poem  has  a  meter  so  you  meet  'er  with  these  words: 
Do  you  love  me,  Susie? 

"  —  Love  you!" 

(Kiss,  kiss,  kiss!) 

Will  you  wed  me,  Susie? 

"Wed  you!" 

(Bliss,   bliss,  bliss!) 

Then  'tis  whir-ir-ir-ir! 

(Your  heart,  your  heart,) 

An'  'tis  whir-ir-ir-ir! 

(Her  heart,  her  heart,) 

Just  a-flutterin'  like  a  covey  with  Cupid  on  their  trail  — 
O,  it  beats  all  kind  o'  huntin'  when  you  bag  that  kind  o'  quail! 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MAY. 

AND  now  she  stands  upon  enthroning  hills 
And  tosses  wreaths  of  roses  o'er  the  world, 
With  banner'd  bloom  about  her  head  unfurl'd 
And  at  her  feet  the  music  loving  rills 
While  winter's  lingering  stirrup-cup  with  frothy  clouds 
she  fills. 


I08  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

The  blue  sky  hangs  above  her  like  a  veil, 

And,  dropping  low,  fringed  with  divinest  lace, 
It  adds  a  softened  shyness  to  that  face, 
Which,  like  a  maid  in  love,  now  pink,  now  pale, 
Needs  but  one  look  from  earth  to  blush  and  tell  its  love- 
blown  tale. 

One  slipper'd  foot,  flushed  as  the  blossoming  trees, 
Is  thrust,  half  naked,  in  the  bloom  and  spray 
Of  orchards,  where  throughout  the  dreamy  day 
The  sunshine  glints  the  wings  of  weaving  bees, 
And  all  her  children,  music  mad,  doth  touch  their  thou 
sand  keys. 

And  baby  vines,  awakening,  have  wound 

And  twined  a  bracelet  bloom  about  her  arms, 
While  'round  her  waist,  'neath  nestling  charms, 
A  russet  belt,  with  beaded  berries  bound  — 
The  sun-maid's  belt,  dropped  at  her  bath,  which  lover 
earth  had  found. 

And  Music  dreams  and  pines  and  sighs 
Within  her  eyes.     And  Poesy  is  there, 
Prophetic-faced,  with  sun-red,  Sappho  hair. 
And  Hope  above,  star-vestal'd  vigil  keeps 
And  throws  a  ray  of  ripeness  o'er  that  face  where  unborn 
Harvest  sleeps. 


GRAY  GAMMA. 

I      AIN'T  never  tole  you  'bout  dat  hoss  race  down  to  Ash- 
wood,    when    Marse    Bill    Young    bet    me    ergin    two 
thousand  dollars  of  er  Missippy  gemman's  money,  has  I?" 
asked  old  Wash  the  other  night,  after  he  had  come  in  to  tell 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 


109 


me  the  young  Jersey  heifer  had  found  a  calf  in  the  meadow 
lot  that  day.  "Wai/  sah,  I've  seed  many  er  race,  but  dat  wus 
de  most  interestines'  one,  frum  my  p'int  ob  view,  dat  I  eber 
seed,  'kase  I  wus  the  principalist  stakes,  an'  dey  stood  me  on 
er  stump,  an'  nuthin'  but  dat  filly's  grit  saved  me  frum  bein' 
a  dead  nigger  in  Missippy  terday,  'stead  ob  a  eminently 
'spectable  cullered  gemman  frum  de  race-hoss  state  ob  Ten 
nessee. 

"I  had  er  mighty  good  marster — wus  Marse  Bill  Young 
— an'  he  wus  de  fust  man  ter  bring  thurrerbreds  to  de 
country.  Ain't  I  neber  tole  you  'bout  dat  bay  colt,  Firefly, 
by  Dan  Rice,  out  of  Margerite,  by  'Merican  'Clipse?  Heish! 
Long  es  I  bin  wid  you,  I  ain't  neber  tole  you  'bout  dat  colt? 
For  de  Lawd's  sake! 

"Wall,  sah,  he  wus  de  bes'  t'ree-year-ole  I  eber  put  er 
shoe  on.  Fus'  dam  by  'Merican  'Clipse;  second  dam  by 
Timoleon;  third  dam  by — " 

"Never  mind  about  his  dams,"  I  remarked,  as  I  gave 
the  old  man  a  cut  of  "Williamson  County  Twist,"  which  I 
always  kept  in  the  drawer  for  him;  "just  go  on  with  the  race." 

"Wai,  sah,  I  had  er  mighty  good  marster — was  Marse 
Bill  Young — an'  he  wus  de  fust  man  to  bring  thurrerbreds 
to  de  country,  es  I  wus  sayin'.  He  didn't  hab  but  one  fault, 
an'  dat  was  dat  he'd  bet  ennything  in  de  wurl'  he  had,  'cept 
his  wife  an'  chilluns,  on  his  own  hosses.  He  neber  did 
think  enny  ob  his  own  hosses  could  be  beat,  but  he  cum 
mighty  nigh  changin'  his  'pinion  'bout  dat  thing  onc't,  an' 
losin'  erbout  de  valu'blest  nigger  in  Murry  county  to  boot. 
Dat  nigger  wus  me.  Mind  you,  I  ain't  blowin'  my  own  horn 
— nobody  eber  heurd  me  doin'  dat — but  I'm  jes'  tellin'  you 
what  Marse  Bill  Young  said  hisself. 

"I  was  de  blacksmith. fur  de  plantashun,  an'  shod  all  de 
thurrerbreds.  An'  right  now  I  can  gib  any  ob  dese  here 
new-fangled  hoss-shoers  er  lesson  or  two,  'kase  we  knowed 


1 10  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

how  ter  shoe  hosses  in  dem  days;  ef  I  hadn't  I  wouldn't  er 
bin  in  this  state  terday. 

"Wai,  sah,  'bout  long  in  Febrery — 'way  back  in  de  forties 
— dar  cum  er  gemmen  frum  Missippy  wid  er  string  er  thur- 
rerbreds  gwine  to  Nashville  fur  de  spring  races.  De  Lawd 
sake!  Dey  used  ter  hang  up  purses  in  dem  days!  Why, 
dis  same  mare,  Gray  Gamma,  dat  I'm  tellin'  you  'bout,  won 
forty  thousand  dollars  fur  Ole  Marster  in  one  purse — won 
it  in  er  walk — but,  bless  yer  soul — Ole  Marster  spent  it  in 
er  fly!  He  wus  er  white  gemmen!  Munny  wa'nt  what  he 
wus  livin'  fur.  He  wus  livin'  ter  race  hosses. 

"Wai,  sah,  ez  I  wus  sayin',  all  de  gemmen  dat  passed 
thru  de  country  in  dem  days,  befo'  de  railroads,  jes'  went 
out  and  stopped  at  Ole  Marster's — de  common  folks  put 
up  at  de  hotel — an'  so,  ez  I  wus  sayin',  de  Missippy  man  he 
put  up  at  Ole  Marster's  too,  wid  all  his  hosses  an'  niggers 
an'  teams  an'  borrows  fur  to  borrow  de  track  wid,  when 
dey  get  to  Nashville. 

"Wai,  sah,  dey  had  a  mair  in  dat  string  frum  Missippy 
dat  dey  laid  great  stress  on.  De  Missippy  nigger  tole  me 
in  conferdence  she  could  outrun  her  shadder  wid  one  leg 
tied  up — an'  she  cud!  How  did  I  know?  Wai,  de  truf  is,  me 
an'  de  Missippy  nigger  gib  her  an'  Firefly  er  midnight  trial 
one  moonlight  night  fur  er  poun'  er  Tennessee  terbacco, 
while  Ole  Marster  an'  de  owner  wus  playin'  poker  for  keeps 
in  de  billiard-room.  Dey  called  de  mare  'Mary  Lef','  an' 
all  I  know  is  she  lef  me  an'  Firefly  dat  night  jes'  lak  we 
wus  er  pair  er  mud  muels  stuck  in  er  clay  bank.  Jimminy! 
how  she  could  run! 

"De  nex'  day  Ole  Marster  cum  ter  me  lookin'  sorter 
worried — fur  he  thout  er  heap  er  me — an'  he  said: 

"  'Wash,  I'm  feared  I  play  de  mischief  las'  night,'  sez 
he. 

"  'How  so,  Marster?'  sez  I. 

"  'Well,   Wash,   you   know  dey  can't  nobody   bluff   me 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  in 

when  it  comes  to  my  bosses.  Dey  am  as  good  as  dey  make 
'em.  An'  all  I've  got  ter  say  ter  you  is  dat  I  called  de 
Majah's  bluff  las'  night  when  he  talked  erbout  Mary  LeP 
beatin'  Firefly.  I  bet  him  you,  an'  Firefly,  ergin  two  thou 
sand  dollars  an'  Mary  Lef,  dat  he  couldn't  do  it — dat's 
all — an'  ef  Firefly  can't  win,  you  jes'  as  well  make  up  your 
mind  to  tell  us  all  good-bye.  De  race  comes  off  day  after 
termorrer,  an'  er  gem'man  don't  gib  his  word  but  onc't. 
You  may  shoe  de  colt  termorrer  evenin','  and  he- walk  off  es 
onconcerned  ez  if  he  wuz  tellin'  me  ter  go  an'  kill  hogs. 

"But  great  sakes!  What  er  knot  riz  in  my  throat!  I 
didn't  mind  it  ef  I'd  only  had  er  dog's  chance — but  I  done 
seed  what  de  mair  could  do — an'  I  knowed  dey  wus  playin' 
er  game  on  Marster,  an'  dey  knowed  it,  too.  An'  me  ter 
leave  Dinah  an'  de  babies  an'  ole  Tennessee  an'  all  I  had  on 
sech  a  chance  es  dat?  Wai,  sah,  I  jest'  went  off  an*  cried.  I 
knowed  it  wa'nt  no  use  ter  go  an'  tell  Marster  all  'bout  what 
me  an'  de  Missippy  nigger  done,  'kase  de  debbil  hissef 
couldn't  make  him  break  his  wurd — an'  I'd  er  got  er  cow- 
hidin'  ter  boot.  I  jes'  made  up  my  mind  dat  all  dey  wus 
in  life  was  ober  fer  Wash. 

"Wai,  sah,  when  de  news  spread,  an'  Dinah  heurd  it,  dar 
wus  er  scene.  She  'lowed  she'd  go  an'  beg  Marster  ter  let 
her  an'  de  babies  go  too,  an'  I  neber  will  forgit  de  night 
we  went  up  to  de  big  house — me  an'  Dinah — to  beg  Marster 
not  ter  sep'rate  us.  Wai,  sah,  he  cum  out  on  de  poach  es 
tall  an'  dignified  es  ef  he  owned  de  yearth — but  I  knowed 
he  had  a  warm  heart  fur  all  dat — an'  Dinah  wus  cryin'  an' 
I  wus  mighty  silent,  and  Dinah  said: 

"  'Marster,  please  don't  sep'rate  us,  but  jes'  put  me  an'  de 
babies  up,  too,'  an'  she  could  say  no  more. 

"Marster  looked  sorter  troubled,  lak  he  hadn't  thout 
erbout  de  thing  befo',  an'  he  walked  ter  de  drawin'  room  an' 
said,  quietly  lak: 

"  'Majah  Fellows,  will  you  step  heah  er  moment?' 


112  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

"An'  de  Missippy  gem'man  step  out  on  de  poach  an' 
we  step  back  in  de  shadder,  an'  Ole  Marster  says,  sez  he: 

"  'Majah,  I  wus  a  little  hasty  in  my  bet  the  other  night. 
I  had  forgot  dis  boy  had  er  young  wife  an'  two  chilluns.  I 
have  neber  sep'rated  a  man  an'  his  wife — in  fact,  sah,  neber 
sold  one  ob  my  niggers — an'  fur  de  sake  ob  common  hu 
manity  I  would  like  to  amend  my  bet,  if  ergreeable  ter  you.' 

"  'State  your  amendment,  sah,'  said  the  Missippy  man, 
coldly. 

"  'The  condition  of  our  match,  sah,'  said  Ole  Marster, 
quietly,  'wus  four  mile  heats,  an'  two  thousand  against  my 
nigger.  I  kno'  yer  mair  is  de  fastest,  but  I  believe  Firefly 
can  outlast  her.  He's  bred  to  stay,  an'  de  only  chance  I 
have  to  win  is  to  comply  with  the  four-mile  condition.  But, 
in  order  not  to  sep'rate  this  boy  an'  his  wife,  I  will  make 
the  distance  only  a  mile  an'  a  half,  an'  in  case  you  win  I'll 
put  up  the  woman  an'  her  two  children  an'  a  thousand  dol 
lars  in  gold  ergin  the  boy  alone,  that  my  three-year-old 
filly,  Gray  Gamma,  will  beat  your  mair,  Mary  Lef,  at  the 
same  distance.' 

"  'Sence  you  wish  it,  sah,  so  be  it,'  said  the  Majah,  'but 
— an'  hit  made  my  blood  bile  when  I  heurd  him  add — 'it 
must  also  be  added  that  the  winner  of  the  last  race  gets 
both  horses  contestin'.' 

"Ole  Marster  flushed,  'kase  it  looked  lak  de  Missippy 
man  wanted  the  yearth.  It  wan't  so  bad  to  lose  me  an' 
Dinah,  but  I  knowed  Ole  Marster  didn't  wanter  run  no 
risk  'bout  losin'  de  filly,  an'  when  he  said  'all  right,  sah,'  I 
knowed  he  dun  it  jes'  for  our  sake.  But  when  he  mentioned 
Gray  Gamma  my  heart  give  er  leap,  fur  I  knowed  her  blood 
wus  es  pyore  es  de  icicle  dat  hangs  on  Dinah's  temple,  an' 
es  hot  es  de  hartdraps  dat  flows  thru'  Juno's  veins — fur  I 
heard  Ole  Marster  say  it  menny  er  time.  She  had  de  meanes' 
temper  in  creashun,  an'  would  hab  her  way  or  die.  She  wus 
mighty  nigh  spiled  in  her  two-year-old  form  an'  hadn't  been 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  113 

raced  sence;  but  she  peered  to  hab  got  ober  it,  an'  I  heurd 
de  trainer  tell  Ole  Marster  de  Lawd  only  knowed  how  fas' 
she  could  run.  After  we  went  home  I  told  Dinah  all  erbout 
de  filly,  an'  dat  night  we  rastled  wid  de  angel  in  pra'ar — 
we  prayed  dat  de  angel  might  take  de  crotchets  outen  de 
filly's  head — we  knowed  she'd  do  the  rest. 

"Wai,  sah,  when  de  day  cum,  de  whole  neighborhood 
turned  out.  Ole  Marster  put  me  on  er  stump  an'  de  Mis- 
sippy  gen'man  put  er  bag  of  gold  beside  me,  an'  Firefly  an' 
Mary  LeP  come  up  an'  was  soon  erway.  Spite  of  de  fact 
dat  I  knowed  we  had  no  chance,  my  heart  jes'  lak  ter  break 
out  er  my  buzzum.  I  saw  Dinah  cryin'  in  de  wagon  whar 
she  an'  de  babies  wus,  an'  den  I  looked  at  Ole  Marster — 
he  wus  jes'  smokin'  er  seegar  lak  he  wus  lookin'  at  er  heat 
ergin  time,  an'  sez  I,  'sho'ly  he  ain't  got  no  heart,'  but  I 
knowed  better  befo'  de  race  wus  ober.  Firefly  was  game 
an'  staid  wid  de  mair — I  cu'd  see  he  wus  better  at  de  mile 
dan  he  wus  at  de  haf,  an'  better  a  quarter  furder  on  dan  he 
wus  at  de  mile,  an'  I  seed  what  er  fool  I  wus  not  ter  let  Ole 
Marster  make  it  fo'  miles,  an'  jes'  es  I  begin  to  think  an' 
hope  dat  Firefly  would  beat  her  ennyway,  Mary  Lef's  rider 
went  to  de  whip — de  mair  made  er  spurt — an'  pushed  her 
nose  erhead,  I  heurd  er  shout,  an'  I  b'longed  to  de  Missippy 
man! 

"I  got  offen  de  stump.  I  cudn't  see  which  way  ter  go, 
I  wus  cryin'  so.  Ole  Tennessee  neber  looked  so  sweet  ter 
me  befo'.  De  wheat  fiel's  looked  greener  an'  de  cabins 
whiter  an'  de  hills  had  a  charm  I  neber  had  known  befo'. 
I  cudn't  hardly  walk  twell  I  heurd  Ole  Marster  say:  'Wash, 
you  am  de  property  of  Majah  Fellows,'  jes'  lak  he  wus  gibin' 
erway  er  dog,  an'  sez  I  to  myself,  'sho'ly  Ole  Marster  is 
crazy — he  ain't  got  no  soul.'  An'  I  leaned  ergin  de  stump. 
Den  I  heurd  him  say: 

"  'Majah,  while  your  mair  is  coolin'  out  I'll  ask  your 


U4  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

permission  to  let  this  boy  change  my  filly's  shoes — he  has 
bin  my  blacksmith,  you  kno'.' 

"  'Sartenly,  sah,'  said  de  Majah. 

"An'  right  dar  is  whar  Marster  had  sense  an'  I  didn't. 
It  wus  a  cold  day  an'  de  groun'  wus  nearly  frozen  an'  de 
track  wus  slick.  An'  Marster  said  to  me  at  de  shed:  'Select 
er  very  light  but  rough  set  ob  shoes,  cork  'em  lightly  all 
erround — I'm  surprised  Mary  Lef's  owner  can't  see  dat  her 
plates  are  too  slick  fur  ice.'  An'  den  he  said,  sorter  smilin': 
'You  needn't  look  so  solemn,  you'll  be  berried  on  dat  hill 
yit.'  Wai,  I  dun  lak  he  said,  an'  dat  wus  one  time  I  sho' 
did  my  bes'  at  shoein' — an'  all  de  time  I  wus  prayin'  fur 
Gray  Gramma  ter  go  off  right.  When  I  wus  through  Marster 
look  her  ober  an'  gib  her  an  apple  an'  patted  her  neck  an'  he 
buckled  de  girth  hisself. 

"When  de  filly  cum  out  an'  de  race  wus  called  I  noticed 
Marster  wus  a  changed  man — he  was  no  longer  careless 
lookin' — he  throw  erway  his  seegar — he  see  ebry  thing;  yet 
he  laugh  an'  joke.  I  followed  his  tall  form  as  he  went  up 
de  stretch  to  gib  de  jockey  orders,  an'  es  he  passed  de 
wagin  whar  Dinah  was  cryin',  sez  he:  'Come,  girl,  don  t  be 
cryin'  dar — it's  prayin'  you  need — pra'ars  dat  de  filly  git  off 
right.  Ef  she  do  you  needn't  stay  twell  de  race  is  ober — 
jes"  take  de  chillun  an'  go  on  back  to  de  cabin,'  an'  he 
stalked  on  an'  me  er  followin'  him  so  dazed  I  cudn't  hardly 
walk. 

"To  my  dyin'  day  I'll  neber  furgit  de  look  dat  was  in 
Ole  Marster's  eye  when  he  went  up  to  de  boy  dat  was  ow 
Gray  Gamma. 

"  'Jim,'  sez  he,  'gimme  dat  whip,'  and  he  throwed  de 
rawhide  ober  de  fence.  'Dis  mair  needs  pettin'  in  dis  race — 
not  whippin'.  Now  look  at  me,'  an'  his  steel-blue  eyes 
looked  lak  Ole  Marster  cu'd  look  at  times;  'dis  race  is  mine 
ef  you  let  dis  filly  get  off  at  fust.  Don't  cross  her;  don't 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  115 

stop  her;  don't  draw  yer  rein.  She'll  set  de  pace — jes'  you 
set  still  an'  guide  her.  Do  you  heah?' 

"  'Yes,  Marster,'  an'  de  starter  called  'em  to  de  scratch. 

"My  heart  beat  lak  a  drum.  I  cudn't  hardly  breathe;  I 
cudn't  stan',  an'  I  sot  down  on  de  groun'.  I  knowed  ebery 
thing  depended  on  de  start,  dat  the  filly  was  lak  er  spoilt 
gal,  an'  ef  erlowed  her  own  way  she'd  go  wid  de  joy  an' 
de  bound  of  er  angel;  but  ef  checked  she  mout  sulk  all 
through  de  race.  I  neber  took  my  eyes  offen  her,  an'  when 
dey  said  'Go!'  at  de  fust  trial,  I  seed  her  wheel  an'  shoot 
erway  lak  er  beam  of  sunlight,  an'  all  at  onc't  my  strength 
come  back  an'  I  jumped  up  an'  sez  I:  'Thank  God!  I'll  die 
in  ole  Tennessee  yit!' 

"But  de  yudder  mair  was  fas',  an'  when  de  rider  seed 
Gray  Gamma's  tactics  he  jes'  turned  her  loose — an'  she  dun 
je's'  lak  she  dun  de  colt — crept  up  ter  de  filly's  flank,  up  ter 
her  saddle,  up  ter  her  haid,  an',  sez  I,  'Is  she  gwinter  beat 
er  ennyhow?' 

"Hit's  been  fifty  odd  year,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he 
looked  away  off  in  meditation,  "but  dat  picture  is  branded 
in  my  mind  es  plain  terday  es  ef  I  seed  it  now.  I  ken  see 
eben  how  de  sky  an'  de  clouds  looked,  an'  de  outline  ob  dem 
two  horses  as  dey  went  nose  to  nose  eround  dat  track.  Hit 
'peered  lak  er  hour  befo'  dey  went  de  mile,  an'  I  dreaded 
de  time  I  knowed  wus  comin'  when  de  rider  ob  de  Missippy 
mair  wud  go  to  his  whip.  He  dun  it  at  de  quarter  pos',  an,' 
thinks  I,  'now  I'm  gone!  Missippy  will  come  wid  her  bolt!' 
But  Gord  bless  yore  soul,  honey,  Gray  Gamma  hed  er  bolt, 
too,  an'  when  de  mair  tried  ter  go  by  her  de  boy  on  Gray 
Gamma  jes'  leaned  ober  an'  touch  her  gently  lak  wid  de 
spur  in  de  flank  an'  she  jes'  grappled  de  frozen  ground  wid 
dem  corks,  an'  shot  her  naik  ahead,  an'  I  jumped  up  an' 
down,  an'  hollered,  'Halleluyer!  Halleluyer!  I'll  lib  an'  die  in 
ole  Tennessee!'  An'  Gray  Gamma? — she  seemed  ter  git  bet 
ter.  She  seem  ter  fly!  It  look  ter  me  lak  she  neber  touched 


Il6  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

de  yearth  fer  er  quarter  ob  er  milel  I  run  to  de  wire  at  de 
stump,  de  same  stump  I  cried  on  befo',  an'  I  jumped  on  it 
lak  er  game  rooster  on  er  barn  fense,  an'  I  hollered  till  dey 
heurd  me  at  the  quarters,  two  miles  erway:  'Glory  halleluyer 
—  come  home,  Gray  Gamma!' 

"An'  she  cum  —  de  sweetest  sight  dis  nigger  eber  seed. 
She  cum  lak  er  bloomin'  skule  gal,  playin'  'Puss  in  de  cor 
ner/  in  low  neck  an'  short  sleeves,  wid  roses  on  her  breast, 
mornin'  on  her  cheeks  an*  stars  in  her  eyes,  an'  makin'  er 
run  fur  de  home  base!  She  cum  lak  ten  camp  meetin's  in 
full  blast  —  an'  me  jes'  got  religun!  She  cum  lak  whole  regi 
men's  marchin'  ober  kittle  drums  —  an'  me  de  drum-majah! 
She  cum  lak  de  charriut  ob  de  Lawd  in  de  pillar  ob  fiah  — 
glory  halleluyer! 

"Wai,  sah,  all  I  rickerlect  is  dat  I  had  her  'round  de 
neck  an'  wus  kissin'  de  star  in  her  furred,  an'  I  look  an'  dair 
stood  Ole  Marster,  sorter  smilin',  wid  his  eyes  sorter  moist, 
an'  Dinah  tryin'  to  kiss  his  han's  an'  he  cum  an'  put  five 
twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  in  my  han',  an'  sez  he:  'Stop 
yer  blubberin',  yer  idjut,  an'  go  to  yer  cabin;  you  don't  know 
er  race  hoss  ef  you'd  meet  'im  in  de  road,  an'  de  naixt  time 
you  hab  a  moonlight  race  wid  my  hosses  pick  out  one  dat 
will  teach  folks  how  to  race  ergin  ole  Tennessee!" 


ALONE. 

MY  love  and  I  sailed  out  to  sea 
When  the  dream  days  came  with  purpling  sky, 
And  her  laugh  was  the  winds  at  play,  to  me, 
And  her  eyes  the  stars  I  guided  by. 
Her  hand  touched  mine,  'mid  the  breaker's  roar, 
And  new  strength  came  to  the  lagging  oar  — 
Her  lips  met  mine  in  the  tempest's  blast 
And  new  life  flashed  in  the  straining  mast. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  117 

My  love  and  I  sailed  on  to  sea, 

And  life  was  full  and  sweet  for  me. 

Till  our  boat  plunged  under  a  death-wave  dark  — 

And  I  sailed  alone  in  a  drifting  barque! 

Now  the  skies  are  gray,  and  the  winds  at  play 

Mourn  drearily  o'er  the  sea  all  day, 

And  I  look  in  vain  through  the  fog  and  rain 

For  the  wave  that  will  bring  me  to  her  again. 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HEART. 


D 


IEEP  in  the  dales  of  the  human  heart, 

Deep  in  the  dells  of  the  soul, 
Where  the  springs  of  the  innermost  passions  start, 
Where  the  brooks  of  Hope  and  Happiness  part 

And  the  flowers  of  life  unfold, 
Is  a  temple  whose  vespers  rise  and  swell, 
Yet  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell. 

JTis  loftier  far  than  the  dome  of  the  sky, 

'Tis  deeper  down  than  the  sea, 
It  catches  the  gleam  of  the  stars  as  they  fly 
And  the  music  they  make  as  they  wander  by 

With  their  heavenly  minstrelsy, 
Music — but  whence  no  mortal  can  tell — 
For  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell. 

No  glitter  of  tinsel,  no  blight  of  gold, 

No  fashion  of  rank  and  lies, 
No  creeds  in  their  coffined  urns  of  old, 
Where  the  dust  lies  deep  on  their  hearts  of  mold, 

No  altar  where  prides  arise — 
And  yet  no  cathedrals  in  beauty  excel — 
Tho'  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell. 


Il8  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

And  here  hath  the  crushed  and  the  desolate  prayed 
From  the  depth  of  their  soul's  despair, 
And  hither  hath  sad-eyed  Sorrow  strayed, 
And  out-cast  Hope  hath  sobbed  and  laid 

Her  head  on  the  altar  there. 
And  never  Anathema  rings  their  knell, 
For  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell! 

O,  glorious  church  of  the  heart  divine  — 

(O,   conscience  —  priest  to  us  all!) 
High  o'er  the  world  may  your  sweet  dome  shine  — 
With  your  silent  priest  in  this  heart  of  mine  — 

And  the  image  of  Love  on  your  wall. 
O,  Church  of  the  heart  —  'tis  there  God  dwells 
Tho'  it  hath  no  priests  and  it  hath  no  bells! 


TO  A  BLUE  JAY. 

OTHE  world  is  all  against  you,  Blue  Jay,  Blue  Jay; 
^      O  the  world  is  all  against  you  now,  I  say, 
With  your  tweedle,  tweedle,  tweedle, 

And  your  jay!  jay!  jay! 
And  your  saucy,  whistling  wheedle 

Just  before  you  fly  away 

To  pounce  down  on  the  juciest  and  the  sweetest  roasting  ear; 
To  steal  the  ripest  Concords  in  the  sunshine  purpling  near; 
To  run  off  all  the  song-birds  with  your  blust'ring,  bragging 

tongue, 
And  break  the  hearts  of  mother  birds  by  eating  up  their 

young  — 

Then  to  perch  up  on  the  highest  limb  upon  the  apple  tree 
And  call  up  mourners  'round  you  with  your  tweedle,  tweedle, 
twee'! 


FROM    TENNESSEE  119 

You're  a  robber,  robber,  rubber, 

Blue  Jay,  Blue  Jay, 
And  a  hypocrite  and  bully, 

As  all  the  world  doth  say. 

O,  the  world  is  all  against  you,  Blue  Jay,  Blue  Jay; 
O,  the  world  is  all  against  you  now,  I  say, 
But  your  tweedle,  tweedle,  tweedle, 

And  your  jay!  jay!  jay! 
And  your  saucy,  laughing  wheedle 
Brought  again  to  me,  to-day, 

The  time  we  stole  together,  in  the  summer  long  ago. 
The  cherries  and  the  peaches  and  the  grapes  of  purple  glow. 
The  day  we  climbed  the  chestnut  for  the  Yellow  Hammer's 

nest, 

And  you  gave  it  up,  disconsolate,  because  I  robbed  the  best! 
And  I  see  the  old  home  once  again,  the  fig  trees  in  the  sun, 
While  a  boy  slips  all  around  them  with  a  single-barrel  gun, 
And  he  brings  it  to  his  shoulder  as  he  sees  a  bobbing  head — 
Bang!  and  he's  a  murderer — for  old  Blue  Jay  is  dead! 
Was  I  a  robber,  robber, 

In  the  summer  long  ago, 
When  I  barbecued  and  ate  you 

With  my  sportsman's  pride  aglow? 

Ah,  some  grown-up  folks  are  like  you,  Blue  Jay,  Blue 

Jay; 
Ah,  some  grown-up  folks  are  like  you  now,  I  say — 

For  they  tweedle,  tweedle,  tweedle, 

When  they  wish  to  have  their  way, 
And  they  wheedle,  wheedle,  wheedle, 

In  their  tricks  of  trade  to-day, 

And  they  pounce  upon  their  fellow  man  and  steal  his  very 
best — 


120  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

His  eggs  of  reputation,  and  his  cherries  —  happiness, 

And  you'll  find  their  crops  distended  with  the  plunder  they 

have  won, 
While  their  tongues  are  shooting  slander  (ah,  'tis  worse  than 

any  gun), 
And  they  thrive  and  fill  and  t'atten  till  they  go  to  get  their 

due 

In  another  world  —  Oh,  Blue  Jay,  won't  they  make  a  barbecue? 
Then  sing  away  your  robber  song 

Of  jay!  jay!  jay! 

Till  some  robber  mortal  comes  along 
And  sees  himself  to-day. 


YESTERDAY. 

THE  old  man  tottered  out  to  the  pasture.  He  was  eighty 
years  old. 

"How  difficult  it  is  for  me  to  walk  now,"  he  said,  as  he 
shuffled  unsteadily  along,  "and  how  it  tires  me  to  go  but  to 
the  pasture  gate!  And  where,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  his  whole 
body  feebly  around  to  look  at  an  object  behind  —  as  old  age  is 
wont  to  do  when  the  muscles  have  become  stiffened  in  the 
neck  —  "and  where  are  the  blue  hills  I  used  to  see  over  there 
where  the  clouds  and  the  sunset  loved  to  linger,  and  the  gray 
mists  rose  from  the  valleys  like  the  breath  of  day  to  the  skies 
above?  Are  they  there  yet?  I  cannot  see  them." 

"They  are  all  there,  Grandpa,"  said  the  little  boy  who  ac 
companied  him.  "They  reach  all  around  and  around  and 
around,  and  they  are  brown  here,"  said  he,  pointing  with 
an  emphatic  finger,  "and  blue  yonder,  and  bluer  further  on, 
and,  yes  —  further  still  —  O,  I  can't  tell  whether  it's  clouds  or 
hills,  they  run  together  so!  But,  O,  Grandpa,  I  know  that 
tree  we  just  can  see  on  top  of  that  far,  far  away  hill!  That's 
Grundy's  big  poplar,  and  I  went  there  once  and  saw  a  wild 


FROM    TENNESSEE  121 

pigeon's  nest  on  the  first  limb,  and  I  played  in  the  branch 
that  ran  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  I  brought  home  wild 
grapes!  O,  Grandpa,"  gleefully,  "let's  run  over  there  now  and 
see  if  they  are  all  there,  and  have  some  fun!  Do,  Grandpa!" 

The  old  man  sighed  and  shuffled  feebly  along. 

"Alas!"  he  said.  "But  yesterday  I  went  there  myself,  and 
went  with  my  mother,  and  I  saw  the  bird's  nest  and  played 
in  the  brook,  and  my  mother  was  beautiful  and  happy.  That 
was  yesterday — only  yesterday.  To-day  I  feel  tired.  To 
morrow  I  shall  rest." 

He  reached  the  bars.  A  horse  came  up  to  the  fence.  He 
was  sightless,  and  his  sunken  back  indicated  extreme  age. 
The  old  man  put  out  his  hand  over  the  bars  to  rub  the 
horse's  nose,  but  the  strained  position  made  his  fingers  dance 
uncertainly  over  the  animal's  face,  and  he  drew  back  his 
hand  because  he  could  not  hold  his  arm  still. 

"What  horse  is  this?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  grandpa!  Don't  you  know  Old  Whip,"  said  the 
boy. 

The  old  man  looked  hurt.  "Old  Whip,"  he  repeated, 
absently.  "Old  Whip.  Why,  yesterday,  only  yester 
day,  I  called  him  Whip — Young  Whip.  And  I  stood  right 
here  at  these  bars  and  caught  him  and  put  your  grandmother's 
saddle  on  him — she  was  forty  then  and  handsome,  and  your 
mother  was  five,  with  eyes  like  yours — and  they  rode  Young 
Whip,  and  I  rode  by  their  side,  and  I  laughed  in  my  strength 
and  happiness,  and  we  rode  to  the  upper  place  and  gathered 
apples  from  the  orchard,  and  picnicked  in  the  woods  and 
rode  back  in  the  evening,  and  I  kissed  them  both  and  lifted 
them  from  the  saddle  and  turned  Whip  in  here  only  yester 
day  evening.  But  one  night  has  passed — but  one." 

The  little  boy  looked  puzzled.  "Why,  grandpa,  mother 
died  when  I  was  a  baby.  And  grandma — I  never  saw  her. 
That  couldn't  have  been  yesterday!" 

"Yes,  yesterday,  my  son — yesterday — because  I  have  for- 


122  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

gotten  all  else  that  came  between  it  and  to-day.  It  was  yes 
terday  —  yesterday,  for  I  remember  it.  Yesterday,  twenty- 
five  years  ago!  Men  time  things  wrong,  my  son.  Our  real 
time  is  from  memory  to  memory  —  from  happiness  to  hap 
piness.  But  let  us  go  in.  I  want  to  kiss  my  wife  and  the 
baby.  I  want  to  kiss  them  to-day,  for  to-morrow  I  shall  rest 
—  yes,  we  shall  all  rest." 

And  the  little  boy  sadly  led  him  in. 


A  MEMORY. 

OTHE  mem'ry  of  the  mistletoe  that  graced  that  Christmas 
scene! 
And  the  berries  in  the  holly  wreath  like  rosebuds  red  be 

tween, 
And  the  smell  of  fragrant  cedar,  even  yet  —  an  evergreen. 

O,  the  beauty  of    the    dainty  hands    that    twined  the  holly 

through, 
And  the  snowy  neck  and  cheeks  that  made  the  roses  blush 

anew. 
Now  I  never  smell  the  cedar  but  I  see  the  maiden,  too. 

O,  the  glory  and  the  story  in  those  eyes  of  tender  trust! 
Not  all  the  world  of  sermons  can  convince  me  they  are  dust, 
For  the  starlight  lives  forever  and  love's  mem'ry  hath  no 
rust! 

Up  in   heaven   with  the  angels   she   is   twining  wreaths   to 

night. 

In  her  Father's  many  mansions  'mid  the  dazzling  glory-light 
She  has  laid  aside  a  love-wreath   for  her  tired  one  in  the 

fight. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  123 

EULALEE. 

Eulalee,  sweet  Eulalee, 

The  years  have  passed,  but  still  I  s^e 
Your  laughing  eyes  'neath  snood  of  red, 
And  the  bending  skies  of  blue  o'erhead. 

The  partridge  calls  'mid  the  dreamy  corn, 
For  the  night  dew  falls  and  the  shades  creep  on, 
And  I  say  "good  night,"  for  the  grass  is  wet, 
And  your  last  words  are — "I  love  you  yet!" 

Eulalee,  sweet  Eulalee, 
The  stars  now  roll  'twixt  you  and  me, 
But  I  see  your  snood  through  the  milky  ways, 
And  your  eyes  beyond  the  starry  rays. 
Your  laughter  comes  with  the  sunbeams  free 
And  the  dews  that  fall  are  your  tears  for  me. 
And  up  to  heaven,  with  hot  cheeks  wet, 
I  look  and  hear — "I  love  you  yet!" 


u 


MARJORIE. 

P  in  the  hills  of  Tennessee 
Lives  Marjorie — sweet  Marjorie. 

There  ain't  a  bird  but  stops  his  song 
When  down  the  lane  she  rides  along- 
Stops  his  singin'  just  to  stare 
And  wonder  where  she  got  that  hair 
So  deeply  golden,  floatin'  there! 
And  why  her  eyes  ain't  baby  blue 
Instead  of  twilight  beamin'  through? 
(For  birds  do  know  a  thing  or  two)! 
They  know  that  wavy,  rosy  flout 
Of  sunset  tress  in  dreamy  rout 


124  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Should  have  some  sky  of  blue  about. 
But  when  them  eyes,  full  to  the  brim 
Of  stars  and  love,  look  up  at  them, 
And  daylight  blush  o'er  cheek  is  spread 
From  cheeks  just  pulped  to  melon  red, 
And  o'er  that  sweet  dream  face  is  born 
The  light  that  kind  o'  comes  with  morn, 
They  ketch  their  breaths  and  sing  away- 
She's  turned  their  eve  to  break  o'  day! 

Up  in  the  hills  of  Tennessee 
Lives  Marjorie — brave  Marjorie. 

Loud  boomed  the  Harpeth,  as  adown 
She  rode  like  mad  to  Franklin  town. 
The  Judge's  daughter — the  county's  star — 
(For  years  I'd  worshiped  her  afar!) 
"Too  high  in  life,"  they  whispered  me, 
"To  look  with  favor,  lad,  on  thee." 
But  love  will  climb  to  star  itself — 
What  careth  it  for  worldly  pelf? 
The  Judge  was  stricken — to  the  ford, 
A  keen  plum  switch  for  stingin'  goad, 
Her  saddle  mare  like  mad  she  rode!  . 
Forgetting  flood  and  angry  wave 
She  spurred — her  father's  life  to  save! 
(Alas,  her  own  she  all  but  gave.) 

Plowin'  that  day  on  the  horse-shoe  side, 
I  stopped  when  I  saw  her  frantic  ride. 
I  rushed  where  the  tall  creek  willows  grow- 
Where  the  swirling  waters  roared  below — 
I  waved,  I  beckoned,  shouted — all 
Were  lost  in  the  lashing  water's  fall! 
I  saw  the  mare  swept  from  her  feet, 


FROM    TENNESSEE  125 

I  saw  an  emptied  saddle  seat. 

I  plunged — what  cared  I  for  the  roar, 

Born,  as  I  was,  on  the  Harpeth  shore? 

What  to  me  was  my  burden  frail, 

I,  who  could  lift  a  cotton  bale? 

Did  e'er  an  arm  that  had  tossed  the  wheat 

Hold  before  a  bundle  so  sweet? 

But  Harpeth  was  mad  as  a  frenzied  colt, 

And  shot  his  flood  like  a  thunderbolt. 

The  big  waves  swept  with  giant  scorn, 

And  once  I  thought  we  both  were  gone! 

Did  she  know  it,  then,  when  a  kiss  I  brushed 

On  cheek  that  e'en  in  the  waters  blushed? 

Did  she  hear  the  words  of  love  I  said? 

(I  couldn't  help  it,  I  thought  she  was  dead!) 

Struggling,  battling,  I  landed,  but  could 

Not  meet  her  eyes — she  understood. 

"I'm  safe,"  she  said,  and  my  hand  she  took, 

(And  gave  me  one,  just  one  love  look,) 

"Now  mount  your  horse,  for  the  doctor  ride; 

Save  my  father  and — I'm  your  bride!" 

Up  in  the  hills  of  Tennessee 
Lives  Marjorie — dear  Marjorie. 

You  can't  climb  up  that  tall  hill  there 
And  look  way  down  that  valley  fair, 
But  what  your  gaze  will  rest  on  ground 
That's  mine — all  mine — for  miles  around. 
That  Jersey  herd,  that  bunch  of  mares, 
Them  frisky  colts  with  all  their  airs, 
That  Southdown  flock  in  yonder  dell, 
Followin'  the  tinklin'  wether-bell, 
Them  barns  and  paddocks  gleaming  white, 


126  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

That  home  shut  in  with  God's  own  light, 
And  all  them  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 
That  sweep  clear  down  to  Amberhorn. 
I  earned  'em  all  —  no  gamblin'  tricks, 
But  hones'  work  and  tellin'  licks. 

But  best  of  all,  'twixt  you  and  me, 
That  girl  is  mine  —  my  Marjorie! 


A  MORNING  RIDE. 

AWAY!  away!  the  coming  day 
Breaks  o'er  the  East  in  fans  of  gray, 
And  purpling  high  the  glowing  sky, 
Blushes  before  the  Master's  eye. 
Steady,  Marie!  my  rein  is  free, 
Canter  a  bit  in  coltish  glee, 
Your  easy  gallop  is  wine  to  me. 

Away!  away!  the  new-mown  hay 

Has  scented  all  the  valleys  gay. 

The  cool,  moist  air  is  thick,  but  rare 

With  odor  never  known  elsewhere. 

Come,  now,  Marie!  you  change,  I  see, 
To  single-foot,  so  swift  and  free  — 
A  palace  car  is  a  cart  to  thee! 

Away!  away!  no  stop  nor  stay. 

Hark!    Heard  you  e'er  such  music,  pray? 

What  melting  rout  now  falls  about 

To  tell  the  mocking-bird  is  out! 

Come,  come,  Marie!    I'm  watching  thee! 

A  fickle  miss  I  fear  you  be 

To  change  to  running  walk  with  me. 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 

Away!  away!  ah!  primrose  gay 

You're  dressed,  I  see,  for  the  race  to-day, 

And  in  the  bloom  of  his  feath'ry  plume 

The  elder  lends  you  his  perfume. 

Then  go,  Marie!  show  them,  for  me, 
How  the  swallow  skims  the  crystal  sea  — 
The  pacing  queen  one  day  you'll  be! 


127 


THE  MULE  RACE  AT  ASHWOOD. 

(The  old  fairs  in  Maury  county  sometimes  ended  in  a 
mule  race,  in  which  every  effort  was  made  by  the  spectators 
to  retard  the  progress  of  the  steeds  and  make  them  fly  the 
track.  Old  Wash's  account  below  is  not  exaggerated.) 

TALK  erbout  trotters  an'  pacers  bein'  cheap,"  said  old 
Wash  the  other  night,  after  ambling  in  to  know  if  it 
was  true  that  Coxey's  army  was  only  a  scheme  to  put 
the  colored  man  back  into  slavery,  "but  you  orter  seed  how 
cheap  thurrerbreds  got  in  Murry  county  way  back  in  '35. 
Bless  yore  soul,  we  bred  more  thurrerbred  mairs  to  jacks 
that  year  den  I  eber  seed  in  my  life.  An'  dey  made  de  bes' 
mule  in  de  wurl.  A  Tennessee  mule  outen  a  thurrerbred  mair 
am  a  leetle  de  bes'  pullin'  thing  dat  eber  was  hitched  to  de 
yudder  end  of  a  trace  chain.  Pull?  Why,  I've  seed  'em  die 
in  de  traces,  tryin'  ter  pull  er  waggin  outen  de  mud.  I  hup 
I  may  die  ef  I  ain't  seed  one  pull  her  fore  shoulders  down  to 
er  foot  of  her  hips.  I  disremember  dat  mule  conspicuously, 
'kase  we  cut  part  of  her  tail  off  arter  dat  an'  sold  her  to  a 
circus  fur  a  geeraffe. 

"An'  run!  Wai,  sah,  you  orter  seed  dat  race  at  de  ole 
Ashland  track  one  fall!  Dey  got  up  er  mule  race,  an'  ole 
Marster  tole  me  if  I'd  ride  his  gray  mule  an'  win  he'd  let 
me  marry  er  gal  dat  belonged  on  ernudder  plantashun,  an' 
one  dat  I'd  bin  pinin'  fur  fur  er  long  time,  an'  ole  Marster 


128  3ONCS    AND    STORIES 

didn't  want  me  ter  marry  her  'kase  she  wasn't  in  de  fambly. 
In  dem  days,  sah,  we  fo'ks  ob  de  fust  qualerty  had  to  be 
migh'ty  'tickler  how  we  marr'id  outen  de  fam'bly.  I  might 
es  well  add,  right  heah,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  arter 
I  got  'er  I  quit  pinin'  fur  'er.  I've  noticed  it's  ginerally  dat 
way.  But  you  wanter  know  how  dat  mule  wus  bred?  Fust 
dam  by  Bosting,  secon'  dam  by  'Clipse,  third  dam  by  Dio- 
meed,  fourth  dam  by  Flyin'  Children,  fifth  dam  by  Barley's 
Arabian,  an'  fur  twenty  more  dat  mule  went  on.  On  her 
sire's  side  she  traced  all  over  Spain  an'  Portugal,  Egypt  an' 
de  Holy  Land,  an'  clar  up  ter  de  Prince  of  Wale  hisself.  Talk 
erbout  er  mule  not  bein'  bred  right!  Oh,  we  had  'em  in  dem 
days.  Thurrerbreds  wus  sho'  cheap. 

"When  de  race  cum  off,  I  made  dat  mule  run  lak  I 
'spected  to  find  de  gal  hung  up  at  de  wire.  De  yudder  mule 
was  bred  spang  up,  too,  an'  we  wus  sailin'  erlong  pritty 
briefly — yes,  pritty  briefly — wid  me  er  little  erhead  an'  dead 
sho'  ob  winnin'.  I  wus  jes'  wunderin'  which  one  ob  his  las'- 
year  coats  ole  Marster  would  gib  me  ter  marry  in  an'  if  Mistis 
wouldn't  bake  er  cake,  when  all  at  onc't  my  mule — " 

"Come,  come,"  I  said,  "don't  make  up  anything.  Tell 
it  just  as  it  was." 

The  old  man  really  looked  hurt  as  he  remarked:  "I  see 
you  ain't  fully  posted  on  mules,  'specially  thurrerbred  mules. 
Why,  dey  am  as  different  frum  hosses  as  de  spirit  ob  a  bat 
am  frum  de  ghost  ob  Ophelia.  Did  you  eber  see  one  run 
erway?  Now,  er  hoss  runs  erway  lak  a  gentleman.  He  jes' 
gits  skeered  and  runs  erhead.  He'll  run  ober  er  court-house 
or  ennything  else,  but  he'll  jes'  keep  on  runnin'.  But  you 
jes'  watch  er  mule  run  erway.  De  fus'  thing  he  do  is  to  turn 
right  roun'  an'  throw  you  out.  Ef  he's  gwine  north,  and  de 
whole  wurT  gwine  north  wid  him,  an'  he  take  er  noshun  to 
run  erway,  he  jes'  turn  roun'  and  run  souf.  Don't  make  no 
diff'rence  ter  him  whut's  behind  him;  he's  gwine  back.  He 
lubs  de  past  better'n  ennything  I  ebber  seed.  He'd  ruther 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  129 

turn  roun'  and  run  back  into  Sodom  an'  Gomorrah  dan  to  go 
straight  erhead  into  glory.  Now,  when  er  hoss  runs  erway 
he's  sho'  to  hurt  hissef;  it's  very  seldom  he  hurt  ennything 
but  hissef  an'  de  vehickle.  He'll  bus'  his  head,  or  break  er 
leg,  or  skin  hissef  up,  or  do  sumthin'.  But  you  jes'  show  me 
er  man  dat  eber  seed  er  mule  hurt  hissef  when  he  run  erway. 
No,  sah!  Hit's  de  folks  in  de  vehickle  he's  after;  and  he 
allers  gits  'em.  He's  de  same  way  erbout  kickin'.  Watch  er 
hoss  kick  you.  He  fus'  lay  back  his  years,  an'  switch  his  tail, 
an'  gib  you  fair  warnin' ;  den,  if  you  don't  git  outen  de  way, 
he  kick  you  ober  like  a  gentleman.  But  do  er  mule  do  dat? 
No,  sah!  When  he  gits  ready  to  send  you  to  kingdom  cum 
he  puts  on  his  most  fetchin'  airs.  You'd  think  kickin'  de 
las'  thing  he  gwinter  do.  You  needn't  be  oneasy  when  you 
see  him  switch  his  tail  an'  back  his  years  an'  sorter  dance  up 
and  down  behind;  he's  jes'  playin'  den.  De  time  fur  you  to 
pray  am  when  you  see  him  behavin'  hissef;  dat's  de  time  when 
he  means  bizness.  When  he  looks  love  outen  his  eyes,  an' 
his  years  p'ints  to  de  pure,  blue  sky  erbove,  p'intin'  sinners 
to  dat  better  Ian',  den's  de  time  fur  you  to  stay  outen  his  way. 
"Wai,  sah,  dat's  de  way  de  male  dun.  He  wus  jes'  forty 
feet  frum  de  wire  when  de  idee  struck  him  dat  he  wus  gwine 
de  wrong  way.  Dey  wusn't  nuthin'  dair  to  skeer  him — nuthin' 
but  er  straight  track.  'Twas  part  of  de  program  fur  'em  to 
try  an'  skeer  him  all  de  way,  an'  de  boys  hed  stationed  er  cin- 
nerman  bear  an'  er  Italian  at  de  fus'  quarter,  thinkin'  dey'd 
sho'  bolt  an'  cum  back.  Now,  er  mule  hates  de  smell  of  a 
bear  like  he  do  de  thought  of  respecterbility,  but  he  went  on 
by  'em  like  he  neber  seed  'em.  At  de  haf  de  boys  had  turned 
a  cobered  wagon  ober — 'nuff  to  skeer  a  saddle  an*  blanket — 
but  my  mule  went  on  wid  his  tail  up — no  skeer  dair!  At  de 
three-quarters  dey  turned  sum  firecrackers  loose,  an'  thinks 
I,  he'll  sho'  bolt  now;  but  dey  both  went  on  jes'  like  dey  bin 
fed  on  firecrackers  all  dair  life.  At  de  distance  flag  de  brass 
band  got  in  de  middle  ob  de  track  an'  turned  loose  all  dair 


130 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


horns  an'  drums  playin'  'Run,  Nigger,  Run  —  de  Patterole 
Ketch  Ye'  —  nuff  to  turn  back  de  debil  hissef  —  but  my  mule 
run  ober  de  fellow  wid  de  kittle  drum,  stepped  on  de  drum 
head  an'  carried  it  erlong  pierced  wid  his  lef  hin'  leg;  but 
jes'  as  dey  got  to  thirty  feet  of  de  wire,  wid  ebery  thing 
clear,  an'  it  look  like  if  dey  tried  to  stop  eben  dey'd  slide 
under,  dey  both  conkluded  dey  wus  gwine  de  wrong  way, 
and  both  of  'em  whirled.  But  I  was  'termined  not  to  get  beat 
an'  dey  said  both  of  us  —  me  an'  de  yuther  rider  —  left  de  sad 
dle  'bout  de  same  time  an'  sailed  through  de  air  like  er  pair 
of  turkey  buzzards  on  er  windy  day.  I  went  under  de  wire 
fus*  and  landed  on  de  hard  groun'  on  my  head  an'  mouth, 
fur  which  I  wus  mighty  thankful,  fur  if  I'd  landed  on  my  feet 
I'd  er  broke  my  legs  sho'.  I  got  up  an'  ole  Marster  cum  up 
laffin'  an'  said:  'Wash,  de  gal's  yourn,  you  beat  de  yudder 
nigger  by  er  lip  —  a  close  shave  —  but  you  went  under  de  wire 
fus'.  You've  got  de  bes'  head  fur  er  race  I  eber  seed,'  he 
said  as  he  felt  my  head  to  see  if  it  was  busted.  An'  ernudder 
man  laughed  an'  said  when  he  looked  at  my  mouth,  all 
swelled  up:  'Hardly  er  lip,  Colonel,  fur  ef  he  had,  he'd  er 
left  de  yudder  nigger  at  de  las'  quarter!' 
"But  I  got  de  gal!" 


WHEN  DE  FAT  AM  ON  DE  POSSUM. 

ODE  glory  ob  de  fall  days,  de  bes'  ob  all  de  year, 
Wid  de  smoke  a  curlin'  up'ard  in  de  mornin'  crisp  an' 
clear  — 
When  de  days  cum  brimmin'  ober  wid  de  soft  an'   meller 

light, 

An'  pollertics  an'  'ligyum  both  ergwine  day  an'  night! 
O  I  don  want  no  better  times  den  dese  my  life  to  fill. 
When  de  fat  am  on  de  possum  an'  de  taters  in  de  hill! 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  131 

O  de  glory  ob  de  fall  days  —  O  de  splendor  ob  de  morn  — 
When  de  hills  an'  valleys  echo  wid  de  hunter's  tuneful  horn, 
When  de  yaller  gal  braid  up  her  ha'r  an'  sets  out  in  de  sun. 
An'  de  fat  shoat  in  de  beechwood  snort  an'  whirl  eroun'  an' 

run! 
You  may  talk  erbout  yer  Promused  Ian'  —  I've  got  it  at  my 

wish 
When  de  brown  am  on  de  possum  an'  de  taters  in  de  dish! 

Sum  say  dis  am  a  wicked  wurl  an'  full  ob  sin  an'  shame, 
Dat  frenship's  but  er  holler  soun'  an'  love  am  but  er  name, 
Dat  all  de  men  am  liars  yit  an'  all  de  women  false, 
Wid  death  an'  taxes  allers  heah  to  make  us  rise  and  waltz. 
Dat  mebbe  so  —  one  t'ing  I  kno'  —  it  nebber  seems  to  be 
When  de  taters  in  de  possum  —  an'  de  possum  am  in  me! 


CLOUDS. 

O    CLOUDS,  ye  are  ships  in  the  infinite  blue 
^     Of  the  ocean  of  heaven  —  and  ye  sail, 

And  ye  sail 
To  the  harbor-gate,  open  to  welcome  you  through 

In  the  west.    To  the  harbor-gate,  pale 
As  a  moon-ray  reflected  from  the  sea 
To  your  sail. 

O,  clouds,  ye  are  ships,  and  above  you  the  dome 
Of  an  infinite  heaven  —  and  ye  float, 

And  ye  float 
To  the  beacon-star  burning  to  welcome  you  home 

To  your  rest.    And  lovers  will  gloat 
O'er  eyes  that  are  blue  and  wet  as  the  waves 
Where  ye  float. 


,32  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

LITTLE  SAM. 

LO,  de  cabin's  empty, 
De  chilluns  all  am   gchn, 
De  jimsun  weed  gro'  'roun'  de  do', 

De  grass  dun  tuck  de  cohn, 
De  fiah  am  turned  to  ashes, 

De  hoe-cake's  col'  an'  clam; 
I  wants  ter  go  to  de  Master  now — 
He  tuck  po'  little  Sam. 

Po'  little  Sam,  dat  played  erroun'  de  do', 
Dat  wake  me  in  de  mohnin'  when  de  chickens  'gin  ter  cro', 
De  Marster's  royal  cherriut  cum  down  wid  steeds  ob  flame, 
He  had  ten  million  angels  but  he  wanted  mine  de   same. 

His  coffin  wus  er  ole  pine  box, 

(Po'  little  lonesome  waif!) 
Whut  matter  whar  de  col'  clay  am, 

Jes'  so  de  soul  am  safe. 
I  gethered  cotton  blossums, 

'Twus  all  de  flowers  I  had — 
Lak  him,  gohn  in  de  mohnin' 

Befo'  de  dew  wus  shed. 

Po'  little  Sam,  dat  played  erroun'  de  do', 

No  more  I'll  heah  him  call  me  when  de  chickens  'gin  to 

crow', 

De  Marster's  royal  cherriut  cum  down  wid  steeds  ob  flame, 
He  had  ten   million  angels  but  he  wanted   mine  de   same. 

Lo,  my  heart  am  empty, 

My  life  hopes  dey  am  fled, 
Jes'  cut  dis  ole  dry  tree  down,  Lord, 

De  moss  am  on  its  head — 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  133 

Why  should  de  ole  man  sorrow  heah 

Sence  you  tuk  little  Sam? 
Jes'  let  me  be  thy  servant,  Lord, 

In  de  manshun  whar  he  am! 

Po'  little  Sam,  dat  played  erroun'  de  do', 

Sum  mohn'  I'll  heah  him  call  me  when  de  chicken  'gin  to  cro', 

An'  den  de  Marster's  cherriut  will  take  me  es  I  am, 

Will  take  dis  po'  ole  nigger  home,  to  be  wid  little  Sam. 


IMMORTALITY. 

HOW  like  a  second  nature  to  our  souls 
Is  immortality.    'Tis  not  of  earth, 
But  comes  a  ray  from  heaven,  that  unfolds 
The  budding  instinct  of  another  birth. 

Who  from  the  void  can  make  a  man  but  God? 

And  if  God  make  him,  shall  He  then  ordain 
That,  having  breathed  upon  the  senseless  clod, 

Back  to  the  void  shall  turn  His  work  again? 
Through  endless  time  no  more  nor  yet  no  less 

Than  making  man  for  woe  and  wretchedness? 

Away  the  thought!    The  deathless  Deed  that  springs 
From  out  its  dust-encumbered  home  of  clay, 

And,  like  a  beam  of  morning,  folds  its  wings 
Only  'mid  the  twilight  of  a  perfect  day  — 

This  cannot  die!    'Tis  part  of  God  himself, 
A  heart-throb  of  Infinity! 

The  Thought  that  spans  the  arch  of  silent  stars, 
Scaling  the  rugged  battlements,  where  rise 


134  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

The  roof  above  time's  own  grim  prison  bars  — 
Searching  beneath  the  shadows  of  eternal  skies 

For  captive  Truth  —  this  cannot  die!     'Tis  God's  own  child 
Exiled  to  earth,  now  seeking  home  again! 


THE  TENNESSEE  GIRL  AND  THE  PACING  MARE. 

THE  Tennessee  girl  and  the  pacing  mare  are  a  pair  I 
can  never  separate  in  my  thoughts.  When  I  think  of 
the  one  I  see  the  other,  and  when  I  see  the  other  I  think 
of  the  one.  They  go  together  much  better  than  Jonathan  and 
David,  or  Damon  and  Pythias;  and  they  travel  along  life's 
road  with  a  great  deal  less  friction  than  either  would  go 
with  a  male  companion.  They  are  a  pair  of  females  entirely 
bent  on  femininity. 

The  bottom  may  drop  out  of  the  universe;  political  par 
ties  may  rise  and  fall;  hades  may  boil  out  of  Mount  Vesuvius, 
and  horses  of  the  male  persuasion  may  burst  the  records 
of  the  world,  but  the  Tennessee  girl  and  the  old  mare  are 
only  bent  on  preserving  the  chastity  of  the  female  race  as 
they  shuffle  along  down  a  sunshiny  pike  to  carry  a  hank 
oi  yarn  and  a  brace  of  spring  chickens  to  another  pair  of 
the  same  gender  living  about  three  miles  further  on. 

The  girl  is  demure,  modest  and  sweet.  The  old  mare  is 
demure,  modest  and  fleet.  The  girl  is  shyer  than  a  sixteen- 
year-old  Nymph  clad  in  a  petticoat  of  sea  foam,  before  the 
mirror  of  the  Olympian  gods.  The  old  mare  is  more  timid 
than  a  fawn  in  a  herd  of  buffalo.  The  Seventh  Regiment 
Band,  in  full  regalia,  could  not  march  by  the  damsel  with 
enough  eclat  to  make  her  peep  out  from  under  her  sun- 
bonnet  long  enough  to  see  the  color  of  their  uniforms;  and 
forty  thousand  of  them  could  not  make  the  old  mare  look 
around  unless  their  martial  music  happened  to  stampede  the 


FROM    TENNESSEE  135 

shuffling  sorrel  offspring  ambling  behind  her — then  she'd 
ride  over  the  regiment  to  get  to  it.  So  would  the  girl. 

But  the  sorrel  offspring  does  not  really  belong  in  this 
duo.  He  is  looked  on  as  a  necessary  evil  which  is  liable  to 
happen  in  the  early  spring  days  of  April  or  May.  When 
the  hazy  gleam  settles  over  the  landscape  in  the  twinkling 
glow  of  Autumn's  aftermath,  he  goes  out  of  their  life  and 
existence.  Perhaps  he  has  grown  too  large;  perhaps  too 
saucy — perhaps  too  much  of  a  man  to  be  allowed  the  com 
panionship  of  this  pair  who  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Vesta 
and  yet  live  in  the  hope  of  one  day  making  it  uncomfortable 
for  a  male  man  and  his  unregenerate  offspring  when  cleaning- 
up  day  comes  round!  In  the  fall,  then,  the  colt  will  be 
missing.  But  the  girl  rides  on  and  says  nothing;  while  the 
old  mare  merely  paces  along  in  a  gradually  increasing  ratio 
of  avoirdupois  till  the  next  spring.  Then  you  may  meet  a  trio 
again. 

The  Tennessee  girl  is  a  born  rider.  No  silk  hat  with 
half  a  white  goose-feather  adorns  her  shapely  head.  No 
long  riding  skirt  streams  under  her  horse's  flanks,  or  flut 
ters  out  behind  to  frighten  the  steeds  of  unsuspecting  passers- 
by.  No  gloves  that  reach  to  her  elbows.  No  silver-mounted 
English  whip  that  abruptly  stops  in  its  make-up  about  the 
place  you  think  the  whip  ought  to  begin — no  goggle  glasses, 
hair  in  a  Psyche  knot,  and  look  a  la  hauteur — no;  that  isn't 
the  Tennessee  girl  on  the  old  mare;  that's  the  city  girl  that's 
riding  for  fun.  The  girl  we  are  talking  about  never  got  on 
a  horse  for  fun  in  her  life. 

A  snow-white  sun-bonnet  with  a  few  stray  curls  peeping 
out  from  under.  It  is  tied  with  a  double-bow  knot  under  the 
chin  and  two  streamers  play  in  the  wind  behind.  A  blue 
calico  skirt  comes  down  nearly  far  enough  to  hide  a  pretty 
foot  that's  got  a  good  hold  on  a  solid  steel  stirrup.  Where 
is  the  other  foot,  you  ask?  Come,  don't  be  too  inquisitive. 
The  Tennessee  girl  has  two;  the  other,  with  its  necessary 


136  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

attachment,  has  got  a  grip  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle — 
and  a  Comanche  princess  can't  stick  there  tighter.  A  pair 
of  woolen  mittens  cover  chubby  hands  that  know  how  to 
hold  bridle  reins — and  there  she  goes,  one  hundred  and  forty- 
five  pounds  of  solid  "gal"  in  a  saddle  her  great  grandmother 
rode  over  "from  North  Callina  in." 

The  Tennessee  girl  is  the  best  female  rider — ah!  beg 
your  pardon,  equestrienne  they  call  it  now — in  the  world. 
And  yet  nobody  ever  saw  such  riding!  She  rolls  in  the 
saddle  with  every  motion  of  the  old  mare.  She  is  the  most 
unstable-looking  thing  in  the  saddle,  to  be  as  solid  as  she  is, 
I  ever  saw.  She  sits  her  horse  like  a  forty-ton  flatboat  on 
th-  roll  of  a  wave,  and  yet  she  goes  ahead  like  a  graceful 
y.ioht  in  mid-ocean  on  the  crest  of  a  billow.  She  will  fool 
you  to  death.  It  is  painful  for  a  tenderfoot  to  behold  her  ride. 
His  first  thought  will  be  to  rush  up  and  save  her  from  falling 
off;  his  second  to  stand  and  see  her  fall — a  mishap  no  one  has 
ever  yet  seen,  not  unless  the  double  girth  broke.  Down  the 
pike  she  goes — while  the  spectator  is  waiting  to  pick  her  up 
— following  every  curve  and  rolling  with  every  roll  of  the 
pacing  mare,  all  the  time  in  unison,  toppling  but  never 
falling,  swaying  but  never  breaking,  easy,  jolly,  joyous,  for 
getful,  unthinking,  unaffected;  she  can  ride  out  of  a  storm 
like  Diana,  pace  home  in  a  curve-line  of  beauty,  or  gallop 
with  her  brother  over  the  field  like  a  princess  of  the  Monte- 
mmas. 

And  don't  you  discount  on  the  old  pacing  mare.  As 
sleepy  as  she  looks  and  as  unconcerned  and  all  that,  she  is 
the  deadest  gamest  thing  under  heaven!  She  carries  the  blood 
of  the  desert — the  memory  of  fifty  Derbys  in  her  veins! 
She  is  the  same  the  world  over,  and  would  jus1:  as  soon  throw 
spceu  amid  the  sand  hills  of  Sahara  as  among  the  roses  of 
Andalusia.  She'll  bring  race  mules  if  bred  to  a  jack,  throw 
"B  B"  bread-winners  if  mated  with  mustangs,  and  give  us 
world-beating  Pointers  when  bred  to  her  equal.  She  car- 


FROM    TENNESSEE  137 

ries  the  girls  to  church  like  a  three-year-old,  takes  the  old 
lady  to  meetin'  like  a  forty-year-old,  carries  the  old  man  on 
a  nightly  fox  hunt  like  Tarn  O'Shanter's  "Meg"  with  a  witch 
at  her  tail,  and  yet  brings  him  home,  when  he  gets  drunk, 
at  daylight,  as  slowly  and  solemnly  as  the  burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore.  She  will  kill  a  dozen  mules  in  a  plow,  would  make  a 
sway-back  elephant  ashamed  of  himself  when  she  backs  her 
ears  and  throws  herself  in  the  collar  of  a  stalled  wagon,  and 
on  general  principles  will  pull  anything  she  is  hitched  to, 
from  a  log  wagon  to  a  sucker's  leg,  and  in  her  friskier  moods 
will  throw  anything  from  a  race  horse  to  a  horse  racel 

She  eats  less,  works  more,  lives  longer,  says  less,  than 
any  animal  under  the  sun,  and  springs  more  unexpected 
speed  from  unexpected  places  than  a  dozen  jack  rabbits  in  a 
sedge  field!  She  is  homely  in  her  old-fashioned  ways,  yet 
glorious  in  her  grit!  Leggy  in  her  angularity,  yet  beautiful 
in  her  strength.  Solemn  in  her  Scotch-Irish  honesty,  yet 
brilliantly  humorous  when  she  takes  the  bit  and  tries  to  pace 
a  2:10  clip  in  her  old  age.  Modest  and  gentle  as  a  nun's 
dream  of  her  first  love,  yet  as  fiery  and  aggressive  as  a  hel- 
meted  knight  in  an  honor  quarrel.  Homely  she  may  be,  plain, 
painfully  plain,  and  yet  to  me,  when  I  know  what  is  slum 
bering  there,  she  is 

Moulded  as  trim  as  a  gatling  gun, 
And  full  to  the  brim  of  its  fire! 

Nothing  can  stop  the  Tennessee  girl  and  the  old  mare. 
Nature,  recognizing  their  claims,  keeps  the  sun  shining,  the 
sweet  birds  singing,  the  winds  playing  and  the  brooks  danc 
ing  when  the  precious  pair  start  down  the  pike.  Even  the 
toll-gates — brazen  evidences  of  corporations  and  cruel  ob 
structionists  of  freedom  and  unrestrained  progress — fail  to 
stop  them. 

"Your  toll,  please,"  said  the  gate-keeper,  as  a  pair  of 
them  came  to  a  halt,  recently,  when  the  gate  swung  up. 

"But  do  we  have  to  pay  toll?"  asked  the  fair  rider,  with 


138  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

a  look  so  full  of  pretty  injured  innocence  as  to  make  the 
hard-hearted  collector  inwardly  swear  he  would  never  col 
lect  another  toll  as  long  as  he  lived. 

"Certainly,  Miss;  five  cents,  if  you  please;  here  are  the 
regulations"  — 

A  carriage  and  horses  ..............  250. 

A  wagon  and  team  .................  i5c. 

A  buggy  and  horse  ................  xoc. 

A  man  and  horse  ..................  5c. 

"A  man  and  a  horse!  Why,  we  are  a  gal  and  a  mare," 
said  the  Tennessee  girl,  as  she  rode  on  through,  after  cast 
ing  a  withering  look  on  the  abject  keeper,  who  was  trying  to 
skulk  off  and  hang  himself. 


LETTIE. 

LETTIE—  she  lives  in  Orchard  Room, 
An'  the  Square  he  lives  near  by. 
Orchard  Room  is  a  world  of  bloom, 

An'  Lettie  —  she's  its  sky! 
A  valley  of  blossoms  an'  rose-perfume, 
An'  Lettie's  the  rose  —  O,  my! 

Her  cheeks,  she  stole  frum  the  peaches 
Thet  dimples  an'  pinks  in  the  sun, 

Her  lips,  frum  the  cherries;  her  eyes  —  blackberries; 
Her  laugh,  frum  the  brooks  thet  run. 

Her  soul!  —  an  angel  drapt  it  onc't 
'Bout  the  time  her  life  begun. 

The  Square  hed  saunt  his  message, 

An'  hit  created  a  stir! 
He  was  "gwine  ter  marry  Lettie 

Or  else  know  the  reason  fur"  — 


FROM    TENNESSEE  139 

Rich,  an'  he'd  buried  fo'  good  wives — 
Now  he  wanted  to  bury  her! 

I  stopped  Old  Kate  in  the  furrer; 

I  mounted  an'  rode  erway, 
I  b'leeves  in  sowin'  to-morrer 

When  I  kno'  I  can  reap  to-day, 
An'  trouble — I  never  will  borrer — 

When  I  orter  be  makin'  hay! 

Down  by  the  spring  she  was  churnin' 

Her  kalico  tucked  to  her  knees, 
Her  cheeks  all  flushed  an'  a  burnin', 

Her  hair  flung  out  to  the  breeze. 
I  looked — an'  I  felt  my  heart  turnin' 

To  butter — an'  then  ergin  inter  cheese! 

I  rode  to  the  fence  beside  her, 

My  heart  went  flippetty-flop, 
'T  was  churnin'  up  champagne  cider 

An'  sody  an'  ginger  pop! 
Old  Kate  hed  nuthin'  ter  guide  her 

An'  she  nacherly  cum  to  er  stop. 

"O,  Lettie,"  I  said,  "my  darlin', 

Will  you  marry  the  old,  fat  Square? 

His  heart — hit's  es  cold  as  his  gizzard — 
His  soul — hit's  es  scarce  es  his  hair! 

O,  Lettie,  sweet,  why  would  the  wild  fawn 
Mate  with  the  polar  bear?" 

She  ducked  her  head  (it  was  takin'), 

"O,  Lettie,  my  heart  you'll  bust! 
Will  you  really  marry  that  bac'n?" 

"Yes,"— slyly— "Zeke,  'spec  I  must!" 


140 


SONCS    AND    STORIES 

"O,  Lettie,  my  darlin',  why  will  ye?" 

"Cause  —  cause  —  you  didn't  ax  me  fust! 

I  grabbed  her  there  an'  I  kissed  her, 

Kissed  her  over  the  fence, 
An'  I  got  me  a  preacher,  Mister  — 

An'  the  Square  ain't  seed  her  sence! 
Fur  he's  up  at  his  house,  in  the  attic, 

An'  they  say  he's  a  raisin'  a  stir 
A-nussin'  his  gout  an'  rheumatic  — 

While  I'm  —  wal,  I'm  a-nussin'  her! 


LIFE'S  CHRISTMAS. 

THE  faint,  sweet  light  breaks  over  the  hills, 
To  waken  the  chords  of  memory's  bells 
And  bring  us  Christmas   morning. 
O,  Christmas  morning,  fresh  and  clear, 
Is  this  your  token  of  a  glad  New  Year? 
Is  this  your  emblem  of  a  good  new  cheer 
To  come  with  your  hallowed  dawning? 

The  glad  east  glows  with  resplendent  beam 
And  wakens  from  sleep  a  childhood's  dream 

Of  a  Christmas  gone  forever. 
O,  childhood's  Christmas,  now  no  more, 
Come  from  the  sheen  of  that  evergreen  shore! 
Come  with  your  faith  and  your  hope  of  yore  — 

Come  with  your  honest  endeavor. 

The  bold,  bright  sun  mounts  up  to  his  throne 
With  eagle  speed  through  the  paling  zone, 

And  manhood's  Christmas  hangs  o'er  us. 
O,  manhood's  Christmas,  bold  and  strong, 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 

Give  us  your  boldness  to  battle  the  wrong, 
Give  us  your  power  the  fight  to  prolong  — 
Shine  in  your  glory  before  us. 

The  pale  west  glows  with  a  purpling  light, 
That  rolls  in  serried  columns  bright, 

Where  the  day  king's  banners  rally. 
But  now  'tis  gone,  and  night  is  nigh; 
O,  then  may  our  good  deeds  glitter  on  high, 
And  our  past  pure  thoughts  bespangle  our  sky 

To  light  our  way  through  the  valley. 


!4I 


"DICK." 

HIS  real  name  was  Richard  Augustus  Washington  La 
Fayette  —  that  was  all.  He  ought  to  have  had  a  sur 
name,  but  he  didn't,  for  he  was  just  a  little  darkey  belonging 
to  Major  Richard  Augustus  Robinson,  one  o*  tne  aristo 
crats  of  Middle  Tennessee,  thirty  odd  years  ago  and  who 
counted  his  negroes  as  he  did  his  flocks  —  on  a  hundred  hills. 
According  to  custom,  Dick's  surname  should  have  been 
Robinson  —  Richard  Augustus  Washington  La  Fayette  Rob 
inson  —  only  nobody  had  taken  time  to  think  of  it,  and  Dick 
was  too  little  to  think  for  himself. 

"And  as  for  hunting  up  names  for  my  negroes,"  remarked 
the  Major  on  several  occasions,  "it's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to 
name  my  colts  and  register  my  Shorthorns." 

But  Richard  Augustus  was  all  right.  His  "mammy"  had 
a  literary  turn  of  mind,  and  when  Dick  was  a  year  old  she 
named  him  for  her  master,  Washington  and  La  Fayette  — 
"the  three  greates'  men  dat  eber  libbed"  —  as  she  herself  de 
clared;  and  then,  having  duly  notified  her  world  at  the 
"quarters,"  she  promptly  forgot  all  about  Dick  and  his  name, 


I42  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

too,  in  the  more  interesting  event  of  declaring  a  pair  of  divi 
dends — twin  dividends,  as  it  were — for  the  Robinson  plan 
tation.  These  required  two  more  names — a  mental  task  too 
much  even  for  a  person  of  her  well-known  intellectuality, 
and  so,  unfortunately  for  Richard  Augustus  Washington  La 
Fayette,  in  the  mental  disgust  that  followed,  she  boiled  down 
the  three  greatest  men  in  history  into — Dick. 

And  Richard  was  himself  on  all  occasions.  With  him 
life  was  one  perpetual  Sunday,  even  after  he  grew  big  enough 
to  leave  "old  Granny,"  the  wrinkled  and  wizardly  witch  of 
an  octogenarian  whose  duty  it  was  to  take  care  of  the  two 
score  pickaninnies  of  various  ages,  "at  the  quarters,"  while 
their  mothers  helped  out  in  the  crops.  And  what  glorious 
fun  Dick  had,  picking  little  baskets  of  cotton  by  day,  for 
work,  hunting  possums  by  night,  and  breaking  the  colts  on 
Sunday  for  religious  diversion  1  Chittlings,  crackling-bread, 
hoe-cake,  'simmon  beer  and  bacon!  These  were  his  till  there 
was  one  endless  cackle  in  his  laugh,  one  continual  ring  of 
grease  around  the  hole  in  his  face,  one  everlasting  brewery 
in  his  heart.  He  ate  so  much,  so  often  and  so  systemat 
ically,  that  his  cocoanut-protruding  forehead  was  as  polished 
as  a  black  ivory  ball,  and  the  small  spot  of  ebony  abdomen 
that  stuck  out  through  the  slit  in  his  one  garment — a  hickory 
shirt  that  came  down  to  his  heels — looked  not  unlike  the 
crown  of  a  Stetson  derby  greased  with  bear's  grease. 

Freedom!  Not  much  of  it  did  Dick  want.  In  fact,  I 
think,  like  the  rest  of  his  race,  Dick  missed  the  idea  alto 
gether — as  a  great  many  people  nowadays  have  missed  it. 
Dick  never  had  studied  on  the  subject  much,  but  somehow 
or  other,  way  down  in  his  little  philosophical  heart,  he  had 
learned  that  slaves  are  sometimes  free,  while  ireemen  are 
often  slaves. 

Ah,  Dick,  there  are  more  slaves  to-day  than  on  the  day 
I  first  saw  you,  thirty-three  years  ago,  as  you  rode  the  bay 
filly  down  the  long  lane  while  the  twilight  shadows  pirouetted 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  143 

the  cows  you  were  driving  home  into  colossal  oxen. 
Yes,  a  lot  more.  It  is  true  they  don't  go  by  that  name, 
Dick;  but  O,  Dick,  names  are  not  even  surface  indicators 
in  this  world.  There  are  so  many  slaves  in  the  world  to-day, 
Dick,  that  sometimes  I  hope  we  will  find  the  north  pole  and 
start  a  new  republic,  not  alone  for  the  poor  white  and  the 
poor  black  slaves  now  in  the  world,  those  who  have  to  pinch 
and  starve  and  toil  and  turn  the  grindstone  of  destiny  as 
you  and  yours  never  had  it  to  do,  Dick,  but  also  as  a  place 
where  every  voluntary  slave  to  passion  and  avarice,  sin  and 
shame,  might  enter,  and,  by  God's  help,  get  another  start  in 
life.  For 

O,  the  tyranny  of  the  master,  Poverty, 
And  O,  the  whip  of  the  master,  Sin, 

And  O,  the  hounds  of  Squalor  and  Misery, 
And  O,  the  driver  that  drives  them  in! 

They  say  that  not  even  our  greatest  scholars  of  to-day 
could  talk  in  Latin  or  Greek,  were  they  placed  back  two 
thousand  years  ago  in  Rome  or  Athens.  And  they  say  it  is 
because  our  thoughts  do  not  come  into  our  minds  the  same 
way — that  they  do  not  originate  in  the  same  manner,  and 
hence  cannot  be  expressed  in  similar  construction  as  those  of 
the  dead  languages.  The  germ-cell  of  the  thought,  so  to 
speak,  has  been  lost.  And  so  it  was  with  Dick.  Freedom  could 
not  enter  his  mind  because  there  was  no  brain  cell  there  for 
it,  and  none  in  his  ancestors  before  him.  That  for  which 
the  Saxon  would  die  was  lacking  in  Dick.  Happy  Dick! 
He  was  like  a  blackbird  born  in  a  cage! 

But  if  Dick  didn't  have  his  freedom  bump  developed 
there  was  one  he  did  have,  and  that  was — love.  Dick  loved 
everybody,  but  he  loved  "Ole  Marster"  best  of  all.  Before 
he  could  walk  well,  he  used  to  watch  the  tall,  gray-haired 
Major  dismount  from  his  big,  stocking-legged  chestnut  horse 


I44  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

when  he  came  in  from  riding  over  the  farm,  and  as  he  would 
stalk  by  Dick  and  stop  to  playfully  crack  his  riding  whip 
at  him,  instead  of  running  away  in  half-feigned  terror  and 
grinning  at  the  stately  joker  as  the  other  darkies  did,  Dick 
would  crawl  up  to  him  like  a  frousy  spaniel  and  with  his 
long  monkey  fingers  he  would  pick  the  cockle-burs  and  beg- 
ger  lice  from  his  master's  leggins,  and  do  it  all  with  the  air 
of  a  dog  when  its  owner  deigns  to  rub  its  back  with  his  foot. 

As  he  grew  older  Dick  was  taken  by  tht  Major  "to  the 
big  house"  to  wait  on  him.  Then  indeed  was  Dick's  cup  full. 

But  one  day  Dick's  cup  was  fuller.  It  ran  over.  At  one 
bound  he  leaped  into  fame,  and,  what  was  better  for  Dick— 
his  master's  heart.  And  this  is  the  way  it  happened: 

Major  Robinson  was  a  noted  horseman.  He  owned,  as 
was  thought,  the  best  in  the  land.  His  neighbor,  Col.  Sellers, 
was  also  a  noted  horseman,  and  the  Colonel  was  quite  posi 
tive  that  his  were  the  best  in  the  land.  The  pride  of  each 
one's  heart  was  a  magnificent  saddle  stallion — and  two 
grander  horses,  in  truth,  could  not  be  found  in  a  day's  ride. 
Each  could  pace  like  a  pickerel  and  go  as  many  saddle  gaits 
as  a  rocking  chair  on  a  steamboat  deck.  In  looks — well, 
ha«.i  Rosa  Bonheur  seen  them,  there  would  have  been  two 
more  of  her  famous  pictures  in  the  Royal  Gallery.  The 
Major's  horse  was  a  splendid  chestnut,  as  perfect  as  a  Tenny- 
sonian  poem,  full  of  thoroughbred  blood  from  nose  to  heel, 
and  known  as  Traveler.  The  Colonel's  was  a  beautiful  bay, 
as  rounded  as  one  of  Johnson's  periods,  equally  as  well  bred 
as  Traveler,  and  known  as  Pilgrim. 

In  those  days  questions  of  superiority  in  saddle  horses 
were  decided  in  the  show  ring.  Only  thoroughbreds  raced. 
With  the  saddler  it  was  looks  and  gaits.  With  the  thorough 
bred,  speed. 

But  Dick  changed  all  that.    Bright  Dick! 

These  two  famous  horses  naturally  met,  time  and  again, 
in  the  show  ring;  and,  being  so  nearly  matched  in  breeding 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  145 

and  gaits,  sometimes  Traveler  would  be  awarded  first  prize, 
and  then  it  would  fall  to  Pilgrim.  Year  after  year  did  this 
go  on,  throughout  the  fairs  of  middle  Tennessee,  until  finally 
it  became  merely  a  question  of  who  were  the  judges,  as  to 
which  would  win.  At  first  the  thing  was  humorous,  but  it 
soon  became  excitingly  serious;  for  as  everybody  in  Tennes 
see,  where  a  horse  is  involved,  will  take  sides  one  way  or  the 
other,  soon  all  the  country  were  Travelers  or  Pilgrims. 
Small  wonder  they  could  not  keep  still!  Tennessee  has  al 
ways  been  a  battle  ground  for  something.  Before  the  white 
man's  foot  touched  its  soil  it  was  the  battle  ground  of  the 
Indians,  the  hunting  ground  of  the  nations.  Jackson  made 
it  lor  forty  years  the  battle  ground  of  national  politics,  and 
Fort  Donelson,  Shiloh,  Murfreesboro,  Chickamauga,  Mis 
sion  Ridge,  Franklin  and  Nashville,  these,  alas,  have  made  it 
the  battle  ground  of  death! 

They  love,  indeed,  a  battle  ground  of  some  kind.  Politics 
suits  them  best;  if  this  fails,  they  are  delighted  to  battle  it 
out  among  the  churches;  and  if  both  fail — look  out  for  a 
horse  race! 

And  so  it  was  in  this  instance — both  politics  and  relig 
ion  were  relegated  to  the  background.  People  no  longer 
weie  Whigs  and  Democrats;  they  were  Robinsonites  and 
Sellerites.  and  instead  of  Baptists  and  Methodists  they  be 
came  Travelers  and  Pilgrims.  Old  fellows  who  had  been 
at  political  outs  all  their  lives  got  gloriously  fraternal  on  a 
platform  that  declared  the  Traveler  horse  to  be  the  best 
horse  under  the  sun.  while  old  ladies  who  all  their  lives 
had  slandered  each  other  "for  the  love  of  God."  became  as 
twin  doves  in  the  Pilgrim  creed.  From  these  it  went  to  poli 
tics,  until  the  county  elections  were  fought  out  on  that  issue. 
Then,  indeed,  did  things  become  serious — families  became 
separated,  lovers  parted  forever,  husbands  and  wives  were 
divorced  on  the  subject  of  which  was  the  better  horse!  In 
the  first  election  the  Travelers  captured  the  sheriff  and  coun- 


I+6  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

ty  clerk — they  had  the  military  strength,  but  the  Pilgrims 
held  the  coffers,  for  they  elected  the  trustee  and  the  tax 
assessor.  A  revolution  threatened  to  disrupt  the  social  fab 
ric  of  the  county  and  bloody  war  was  imminent  when  Dick 
— the  little  wizard  philosopher — settled  the  entire  thing  to  his 
own  everlasting  honor  and  the  dignity  of  the  state. 

How  he  came  to  think  of  it,  I  do  not  know.  But  on«s 
day  that  fall  when  things  were  at  a  crisis,  when  Traveler 
had  beaten  Pilgrim  in  the  show  ring  for  the  fortieth  time 
to  the  Pilgrim  horse's  thirty-ninth  as  against  Traveler,  when 
young  men  were  fighting  duels  on  the  subject  and  old  men 
were  calling  each  other  names,  Dick  sat  out  in  front  of 
Traveler's  stall  combing  his  own  head  with  a  curry  comb,  as 
was  customary  with  his  race.  Now,  I  do  not  know  for  certain, 
but  I  have  always  believed  it  was  the  curry  comb  that  put 
the  idea  into  Dick's  head,  because  I  have  often  noticed  that 
when  people  want  very  earnestly  to  think  of  something,  they 
always  scratch  their  heads.  It  follows  as  a  necessary  con 
clusion  that  if  there  is  any  virtue  in  the  scratching  at  all,  it 
would  also  follow  that  the  harder  the  heads  were  scratched 
the  brighter  would  be  the  thought  result.  Now  Dick  was 
combing  away  with  all  his  might,  for  the  kinks  stuck  out 
definantly  over  his  head,  and  all  will  admit  that  the  idea 
evolved  was  simply  brilliant.  Hence  the  theorem,  as  the 
geometries  say. 

"Marster,  does  you  kno'  Traveler  kin  pace  mighty  fast?'' 
asked  Dick  as  Major  Robinson  came  out  to  see  to  the  feed 
ing  of  his  horse. 

The  Major  smiled.     "Of  course  I  do,   Dick.     Why?" 

"But  does  you  kno'  he  kin  pace  mighty  briefly — mighty 
briefly,"  repeated  Dick,  earnestly. 

"You  know  I  do,"  said  the  Major;  "but  how  did  you 
find  it  out?  Have  you  been  pacing  this  horse  to  water?" 
asked  his  master,  a  trifle  sternly. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  147 

"No,  sah!"  said  Dick,  in  a  tone  of  deeply  grieved  inno 
cence.  And  then  he  laughed. 

"But  marster,  ef  you'd  axed  me  ef  I'd  bin  pacin'  'im 
frum  water,  I'd  hafter  tell  you  de  truth.  Fur  tuther  day 
I  rid  'im  down  to  de  crick,  an'  when  er  thunderstorm  cum 
up  I  had  to  run  home  er  git  wet.  I  tried  to  make  'im  run, 
but  he  wouldn't,  he  jes'  paced  lak  er  flyin'  Kildee — an'  he  beat 
the  shower  by  a  good  length.  Wa'n't  dat  pacin'  frum  water?" 
and  Dick  grinned  again. 

The  Major  had  to  laugh,  too. 

"Marster,"  said  Dick  solemnly,  '"peers  to  me  dis  way 
ob  showin'  hosses  in  de  ring  ain't  no  way  to  tell  which  am 
de  bes'.  Enny  fat  hoss  kin  get  er  prize,  but  it  takes  grit  to 
win  er  race,  an'  de  hoss  dat  ought  to  hab  de  prize  am  de  hoss 
dat  kin  go — dat's  got  de  win'  an'  de  lira'  an'  de  bottom  an' 
de  head  to  stay  dar.  Dat's  de  hoss  wuff  sumpin',  ain't  it?" 

The  Major  smiled.     "Yes,  Dick,  but  why?" 

Dick  jumped  up  with  intense  earnestness  in  every  feat 
ure.  "Marster,  Marster,"  he  shouted,  "'jes'  challenge  de 
Pilgrim  folks  fur  er  pacin'  race!  Make  it  fo'  miles — dat'll 
settle  it,  an' " — lowering  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper 
— "you  kno'  Trabler's  got  de  blood  to  stay!" 

The  Major  caught  at  the  idea  in  a  moment.  Up  to  that 
time  pacing  races  were  practically  unheard  of  in  the  state. 
The  idea  was  novel,  and,  certainly,  as  Dick  said,  would  "set 
tle  it."  Without  a  word  he  turned  on  his  heels,  went  to  his 
library  and  promptly  challenged  the  owner  of  Pilgrim  to  a 
four-mile  pacing  race  for  a  purse  of  five  thousand  dollars. 
The  challenge  was  as  promptly  accepted  by  Colonel  Sellers, 
and  Dick? — poor  little  Dick — I  claim  for  him  here  the  honor 
of  being  the  originator  of  pacing  races  in  Tennessee! 

It  is  needless  to  say  the  county  was  out  to  see  that  race. 
The  boy  who  rode  Pilgrim  was  nearly  grown  and  quite 
strong,  while  Dick  was  but  ten  years  old  and  a  midget  at 
that.  When  they  came  out  on  the  track  for  the  word  Trav- 


148  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

eler  was  so  keen  to  go  and  so  powerful  withal,  that,  by 
merely  fighting  half  restlessly  the  bit,  he  jerked  Dick  about 
the  saddle  as  a  cork  on  a  billow. 

"Marster,"  said  Dick,  as  he  rode  up  to  where  Major 
Robinson  stood,  "I  ain't  'feered  of  but  one  thing.  Won't 
you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"What  is  it,  Dick?"  asked  the  Major,  as  he  caught  the 
strong  horse  by  the  bit  to  see  what  the  boy  wanted. 

"I'm  'feered  I  can't  hoi'  'im  down,"  said  Dick,  "I'm  so 
light.  Won't  you  let  'em  tie  me  in  de  saddle?" 

The  Major  shook  his  head.  "No,  no,  Dick,"  he  said. 
"That  would  be  cruel  and  treating  you  unfairly.  The  horse 
might  run  away,  or  fall,  and  I  had  rather  lose  the  race  than 
see  you  hurt.  Do  the  best  you  can  as  it  is." 

"An'  I'd  ruther  die  than  lose  de  race,  Marster,"  said 
Dick,  determinedly.  "Tie  me  in,  an'  ef  ennything  happens 
I  won't  blame  you." 

The  Major  reluctantly  yielded  to  the  boy's  entreaties. 
A  strong  girth  was  passed  over  Dick's  hips  as  he  sat  in  the 
saddle  and  tightly  buckled  around  the  horse;  the  word  was 
soon  given  and  they  were  away. 

The  horses  paced  like  a  team,  both  riders  holding  them 
down  for  fear  they  would  break.  At  the  first  mile  they 
ha''  become  thoroughly  warmed  to  the  work  and  were  steady 
enough  to  be  given  their  heads  more  freely.  At  the  second 
mile  Dick  led  by  a  length,  and  at  the  third  he  had  gotten 
still  swifter  and,  owing  to  a  break  of  Pilgrim,  he  was  ten 
good  lengths  ahead  and  his  horse  moving  like  machinery. 
But  here  the  unexpected  happened.  Dick  was  too  light  for 
the  powerful  animal.  Scarcely  had  he  passed  the  third  mile 
gcing  at  a  terrific  speed,  when  Traveler,  taking  the  bit  in  his 
teeth,  and  having  insufficient  weight  at  the  reins,  pulled  Dick, 
saddle  and  all,  slightly  forward,  and  then,  to  the  horror  of  all, 
the  saddle  turned,  and  the  boy  and  saddle  were  seen  dangling 
under  the  powerful  horse's  belly,  while  his  flying  feet  appeared 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  149 

likely  at  any  moment  to  end  Dick's  life  and  race  at  the  same 
time.  And  to  a  larger  rider  tied  as  Dick  was,  such  would 
have  been  the  result.  But  not  so  with  wiry  little  Dick;  his 
presence  of  mind  did  not  forsake  him.  He  grasped  the  sur 
cingle  band  which  ran  around  the  horse's  neck  with  both 
hands,  dug  his  sharp  heels  into  Traveler's  flanks  and  stuck 
there  closer  than  a  flying  squirrel  under  an  oak  limb! 

And  the  crowd,  when  they  saw  the  act  and  the  fact 
that  the  gallant  horse  never  broke  his  gait,  cheered  itself 
hoarse.  But  in  an  instant  it  stopped — Traveler,  riderless, 
had  slackened  his  speed — Pilgrim  came  up  and  passed  him; 
while  Traveler,  bewildered,  mechanically  followed  several 
lengths  behind.  It  was  all  up  for  the  Major! 

But  not  so.  Dick  quietly  waited  in  his  perilous  posi 
tion  till  he  turned  into  the  stretch,  and  then — the  crowd  went 
wild  again — for  Dick,  reckless  Dick,  turned  loose  his  whip 
hand,  gathered  a  firmer  grip  with  his  left,  swung  out  his  keen 
rawhide  and  made  Traveler  think  a  hundred  hornets  had 
settled  on  him.  It  was  a  horse  race  from  there  to  the 
wire,  but  Traveler  had  the  speed  and  went  under  a  half 
length  ahead. 

No  wonder  a  hundred  men  seized  his  bridle  and  cut  Dick 
loose  from  his  perilous  position.  No  wonder  the  Major 
himself  picked  him  up  for  joy,  and,  while  he  declared  ten 
thousand  dollars  could  not  buy  him,  henceforth  he  was  free! 

i 
II. 

Such  was  Dick  as  I  knew  him,  thirty-three  years  ago. 
Given  his  freedom,  he  refused  to  leave  his  master  and  Trav 
eler,  but  hung  around  the  place,  caring  for  the  horses  and 
cows,  and  enjoying  all  the  affections  and  privileges  of  a 
shepherd  dog.  Every  morning  he  would  mount  the  bay  filly 
and  drive  the  cows  to  the  blue  grass  pasture.  Every  evening 
he  would  drive  them  home.  I  can  see  him  now,  as  he  would 


150  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

ride  down  the  long  lane  in  the  twilight.  How  I  used  to  envy 
him! — his  jolly  good  nature,  his  graceful  seat  on  the  restive 
filly,  the  beautiful  way  he  had  of  popping  his  long  whip,  and, 
best  of  all,  the  wonderful  music  in  his  wild  halloo,  sounding 
like  a  bugle  call: 

"Time's   up,    time's   up, 
Children  an'-ah, 
Children  an'-ah, 
Les'  go  h-o-m-e!" 

I  don't  think  anyone  living  could  sing  that  as  Dick 
did.  I  did  not  know  then  where  he  got  it,  but  the  war  soon 
taught  me.  It  was  "Lights  Out,"  and  I  wish  I  could  put 
down  the  music  too,  so  my  readers  could  tell  exactly  how 
Dick  would  roll  it  out.  But  to  make  it  complete,  I  would 
also  have  to  put  down  the  twilight,  the  song  of  the  wind  in 
the  trees,  the  chirp  of  the  redbird  as  he  went  to  roost,  and 
the  glow  of  the  sunset  in  the  western  sky. 

Home  is  the  most  perfect  word  in  our  language.  It  fits 
the  mouth  better,  fills  the  lungs  fuller,  and  rolls  out  purer 
and  sweeter  and  better  than  any  word  in  the  English  lan 
guage.  And  how  Dick  could  make  it  roll!  It  would  start  from 
his  mouth  and  rise  and  fall  and  swell  above  the  treetops, 
and  float  over  the  low  hills  and  then  come  back  in  an  echo 
cf  subdued  sweetness  when  it  struck  the  higher  hills  beyond. 
As  Dick  sang  it  there  was  a  whole  orchestra  in  that  one 
word — and  more;  it  was  an  organ,  a  sermon  and  a  prayer. 
And  he  had  caught  the  tune  from  a  bugler — for  Tennessee 
was  full  of  Bragg's  and  Rosecran's  soldiers  at  this  time — 
out  the  words,  Dick,  I  suppose,  had  made  them  himself.  A 
queer  combination!  Apollo's  harp  twanged  with  Mar's  bow 
strings — but  it  was  music. 

Suddenly  Dick  pulled  up  the  filly  with  a  jerk.  He  list 
ened  and  heard  firing  over  toward  Murfreesboro.  Dick 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  151 

knew  what  it  meant.  It  was  Tuesday  evening,  December  30, 
the  evening  before  the  battle  of  Stone  River.  Dick  popped 
his  whip  vigorously.  Then  he  gravely  shook  his  head: 

"Sumbody  gwinter  git  hurt  ober  dar  ef  dey  don't  behave 
deysefs.  Dem's  our  men  doin'  dat  shootin'.  Dat's  ole 
Biagg's  bark.  Look  out,  Rosy!" 

He  rode  on  a  piece  in  silence.    The  firing  grew  sharper. 

"What's  dese  Yankees  wanter  cum  down  heah  an'  take 
oui  niggers  'way  from  us  fur  enny  way?  Whut  we  dun  to 
dem?  All  we  ax  'em  to  do  is  to  let  us  erlor»«;,"  and  he  gal 
loped  out  to  head  off  a  heifer. 

Where  Dick  got  the  sentiments  he  expressed  I  cannot 
say;  but  I  do  know  that  Dick  was  no  exception  to  his  race. 
Darky  like,  he  was  for  his  home  and  his  white  people  first, 
though  the  freedom  of  all  his  race  lay  on  the  other  side. 
And  Dick,  like  every  other  negro,  knew  it,  too,  though  they 
worked  on  and  said  nothing. 

Some  day  there  is  going  to  be  a  great  monument  put 
up  in  the  South  by  southern  people.  And  on  its  top  is  going 
to  be  a  negro — not  the  mythical  slave  with  chains  on  him  and 
terror  in  his  face,  which  fool  artists,  who  never  saw  a  negro 
slave,  and  fool  poets,  who  never  heard  one  laugh,  are  wont 
to  depict — but  the  jolly,  contented,  rollicking  rascal  that  we 
knew  and  loved;  the  member  of  our  household  and  sharer 
of  our  joys  and  sorrows.  On  its  top,  I  say,  there  is  going 
to  be  that  kind  of  a  negro,  as  he  was,  and  he  is  going  to 
be  represented  in  the  act  of  picking  cotton,  with  a  laugh, 
while  he  refuses  with  scorn  a  gun  with  which  to  fight  his 
master  for  his  own  freedom.  When  that  is  done,  it  will  be 
the  crowning  monument  of  the  age. 

But  in  Dick's  case  it  was  still  more  remarkable,  for 
Major  Robinson  was  what  was  called  in  Tennessee  at  that 
time  "a  Union  man."  He  was  one  of  that  very  numerous 
class  in  Tennessee  who  voted  as  he  said  Andrew  Jackson 
would  vote — against  secession.  Even  after  the  Gulf  states  se- 


152  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

ceded,  these  voted  against  secession  and  carried  the  state  by 
a  large  majority,  in  a  test  of  that  question.  Afterward,  when 
federal  troops  invaded  the  state,  the  tide  turned,  and  Ten 
nessee  seceded.  But  Major  Robinson,  while  he  refused  to 
secede,  also  refused  to  fight  his  own  people.  Avowedly  for 
the  Union,  he  took  no  part  in  the  war. 

Dick  rode  on  home  rather  seriously  I  thought,  for  I 
again  heard  his  bugle  call: 

"Time's   up,   time's   up, 
Children  an'-ah, 
Children  an'-ah, 
Les'  go  h-o-m-e!" 

But  if  Dick  thought  the  evening  skirmish  was  going  to 
hurt  somebody  if  they  didn't  behave,  he  had  no  doubt  at 
all  the  next  morning.  For  just  at  daylight,  as  he  expressed 
it,  "hell  sut'n'ly  broke  loose  at  Muffersburrer" — Rosecrans 
with  forty-three  thousand  men  had  advanced  from  Nashville 
to  strike  Bragg  on  Stone  River,  and  utterly  crush  him  But 
Bragg  had  a  similar  intention  and  struck  first,  at  daylight,  on 
the  last  day  of  December,  1862.  And  Dick  had  it  right;  gen 
ius  is  genius,  and  Dick  and  a  great  Union  general  both  used 
the  same  expression  in  speaking  of  that  battle. 

All  day  long  Dick  heard  the  boom,  boom,  boom  of 
guns.  For  all  day  long  Cleburne  and  Hardee,  Polk  and 
Cheatham,  Withers  and  McCown  executed  one  continual 
charging  left  wheel  and  rolled  Rosecran's  right  wing  back, 
bark,  back,  for  four  long  miles,  until  the  federal  lines  were 
dcubled  up  on  each  other  at  right  angles,  like  a  big  bird 
with  a  broken  wing.  As  wounded  men  were  brought  to  the 
rear,  and  filled  up  the  farm  houses  and  yards,  Dick  heard 
them  say  that  Bragg  had  crushed  Rosecrans.  that  the  federal 
general  was  cut  to  pieces,  that  Shiloh  was  avenged. 

But  the  next  day   Dick  heard  no   more  guns,   and   he 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  153 

learned  that  Rosecrans  had  gotten  between  the  river  and 
the  railroad  embankment,  and  was  going  to  fight  there  for 
life,  madder  than  a  gored  bull.  All  that  day  Dick  waited  to 
see  what  was  going  to  happen. 

The  next  day  it  happened.  For  Bragg  tried  to  double 
up  the  other  wing.  Then  there  was  another  day  of  boom, 
boom,  boom,  until  the  wounded  were  so  many  and  the  dead 
s<,  thick  that  Dick  actually  got  used  to  dead  men  and  de 
clared  that  he  would  never  again  be  afraid  to  go  through  a 
graveyard — "fur  whut  is  a  grabeyard  where  dey  am  under 
groun'  an'  you  can't  see  'em/'  he  said,  "to  a  grabeyard  on 
top  de  yearth  whar  you  can't  walk  for  steppin'  on  "em." 

But  the  wing  wouldn't  double  up.  And  on  the  third 
day  Bragg  quit  and  marched  away.  Dick  afterward  learned 
that  Rosecrans  was  about  to  march  back  to  Nashville  him- 
sell  if  Bragg  hadn't  been  in  such  a  hurry,  and  that  moved 
the  wise  little  Dick,  in  great  disgust,  to  exclaim:  "Bragg 
am  a  good  dog,  but  Holdfas'  am  better!" 

Bright  Dick;  that  was  what  Rosecrans  himself  said. 

About  a  week  after  the  battle  Dick  went  out  one  even 
ing  to  feed  Traveler  for  the  night.  To  his  surprise  an  officer 
in  a  blue  uniform  was  standing  in  the  stable  door,  and  going 
into  exaggerated  praise  of  the  beautiful  animal,  which  a 
soldier  held  by  the  bit  for  his  inspection. 

"Put  'im  back,  gem'men,"  shouted  Dick,  as  he  rushed 
up  excitedly,  "put  'im  back!  Dat's  Trabler;  ole  marster 
don't  'low  nobody  to  handle  'im  but  me!" 

The  officer  laughed.  "He  looks  like  a  pretty  good 
Traveler,"  he  said,  "and  that's  what  I  want  with  him." 

"But  you  can't  git  dat  hoss,  sah,"  expostulated  Dick. 
"He  ain't  fur  sale." 

"We  don't  want  to  buy  him,"  said  the  soldier  who  was 
holding  the  bit.  "In  war  time  we  take  what  we  want." 

Dick  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  vanished.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  came  back  with  Major  Robinson. 


154  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

The  Major  was  astounded.  He  expostulated;  the  soldiers 
were  determined.  He  explained  his  position,  offered  them 
other  horses,  and  demanded  protection:  It  was  no  avail. 
Then  the  Major  grew  commanding  and  ordered  them  back. 
The  officer  lost  his  temper  and  foolishly  drew  his  revolver. 
Foolishly,  I  say,  for  to  a  man  of  Major  Robinson's  ideas  of 
life  and  death  and  honor,  he  simply  invited  a  tragedy — and 
it  came.  The  Major  was  an  old  duelist,  dead  game  and  a 
deader  shot,  and  before  Dick  recovered  his  senses,  he 
heard  five  or  six  shots  follow  each  other,  some  in  and  some 
out  of  the  stable  door. 

When  the  smoke  died  away,  an  officer  lay  dead,  a  soldier 
dying,  and  Dick  was  holding  Traveler's  bit  with  one  hand, 
the  stirrup  with  the  other,  and  begging  his  master  to  fly. 

"Go!  Marster,  go!"  he  begged.  "Don't  you  heah  de 
udder  soldiers  cumin'?  Dey  will  kill  you  ef  dey  ketch  you 
heah;  but  dey'll  never  ketch  you  on  dis  hoss." 

The  Major  hesitated:  "You  saw  them,  Dick,"  he  said, 
half  sorrowfully.  "They  were  stealing  my  horse,  and  drew 
to  kill  me.  No,  I'll  not  run  for  defending  my  property  and 
my  life." 

A  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  came  up  the  pike.  A  squad 
of  federal  cavalry  dashed  in  the  front  gate.  Dick  thrust  his 
master's  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  half  pushed  him  in  the  sad 
dle.  The  Major  was  convinced  he  had  better  flee,  at  least 
until  he  could  come  back  and  be  sure  of  an  impartial  trial, 
and  as  Dick  turned  loose  the  bit  he  gave  the  spirited  animal 
a  blow  which  made  him  bound  away  through  a  side  gate: 
"Take  care  of  your  mistress,  Dick,"  was  all  the  Major  could 
call  back  before  he  was  gone. 

Dick  picked  up  the  pistol  his  master  had  thrown  down. 
A  squad  of  soldiers  rushed  around  the  house  to  the  stable. 
They  took  in  the  scene  at  a  glance. 

"Who  did  this?"  shouted  one  to  Dick. 

Dick  listened.     He  could  still  hear  Traveler's  feet  up  the 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  155 

pike.     His  master  might  yet  be  headed  off  and  captured  if 
he  answered. 

"Who  did  this?"  thundered  the  soldiers  again,  while 
several  of  them  cocked  their  pieces. 

Dick  listened  again.  He  could  still  hear  the  horse's 
feet.  An  idea  flashed  into  his  mind.  It  meant  death  to  him, 
he  knew,  but  what  cared  Dick  if  it  saved  "Ole  Marster?" 

He  turned  his  head  slowly  and  looked  the  soldiers  in 
the  eye. 

And  the  eyes  that  looked  so  calmly  into  the  muzzles  of 
their  guns  were  no  longer  those  of  a  little  negro  slave — they 
were  twin  stars  that  lit  the  lamps  of  Heaven,  while  the  Re 
cording  Angel  wrote  something  grand  opposite  Dick's  poor 
little  slave  name. 

"Heah's  whut  dun  it,"  he  said,  as  he  held  the  pistol,  still 
warm,  out — "dey  wus  stealin'  marster's  hoss,  an'  I" — 

A  volley  followed  instantly. 

"I  guess  we've  got  the  imp,"  said  a  soldier  grimly  as  he 
watched  the  motionless  figure  now  lying  in  the  stall  door 
between  the  two  blue  uniforms. 

But  suddenly  the  pinched  figure  rose  on  its  elbows  and 
listened.  The  sound  of  flying  hoofs  could  no  longer  be  heard; 
a  smile  of  exquisite  satisfaction  stole  over  the  grimy  face, 
and  definatly  there  came  back: 

"Yes,  you  got  me.  But  you'll  nuvver  git  Ole  Marster 
on  dat  hoss!" 

And  then,  as  consciousness  forsook  him  and  the  dark 
closed  'round,  he  must  have  thought  it  was  twilight  and  that 
he  was  on  the  bay  filly  driving  the  cows  home,  for  the  sol 
diers  heard,  low  and  soft  as  their  own  bugle  notes — 
"Time's  up,  time's  up, 
Childun  an'-ah, 
Childun  an'-ah, 
Les'  go  h-o-m-e!" 

And  Dick's  light  was  out. 


156  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

BEAUTY. 

O  WEET  is  the  grace  of  beauty,  and  it  holds 
O    The  imprisoned  earth  within  its  radiant  folds. 
It  steals  upon  us  like  the  rosy  hue 
Of  morning's  blush,  and  while  the  sweet  cool  dew 
Moistens  and  freshens  the  dead  grass  of  our  hope, 
It  bursts  like  love-stars  on  our  horoscope. 
Like  Dian's  locks,  her  flashing  charms  deter 
Yet  make  the  light  by  which  we  worship  her. 
The  eyes  of  children,  flute  notes  of  a  bird, 
Flowers  that   'round  them  beading  dewdrops   gird, 
Skies  of  blue  and  gold  at  wedding  morn, 
Lips  that  touch  when  sweet  young  love  is  born, 
These  strew  her  pathway,   Iris-crowned  they  rise 
When  beauty's  sun  lights  up  life's  'wakening  skies. 


THOROUGHBREDS. 
(An  incident  of  the  fight  around  Atlanta.) 

QTRAIGHT  at  the  breast-works,  flanked  with  fire, 
O      Where  the  angry  rifles  spat  their  ire, 
And  the  reeling  cannon  rocked  with  flame, 
Swift  as  his  name-sake,   Bullet  came. 
Young  was  his  rider,  fifteen  and  two, 
And  yet  the  battles  that  he'd  been  through 
Were  fifteen  and  ten  —  a  braver  lad 
Old  Fighting  Forrest  never  had! 

And  as  he  rode  down  the  rifled  wind 
His  brown  curls  bannered  the  breeze  behind. 
"O,  they  are  mother's,"  he  had  laughed  and  said 
When  the  men  nicknamed  him  "Trundle  Bed" 
Two  years  before  —  (when  he  first  ran  away 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  157 

From  mother  and  school  to  don  the  gray). 
"But  that's  all  right" — with  a  toss  of  his  head — 
"For  Bullet  is  grown — and  he's  thoroughbred!" 

But  that  was  before  the  Shiloh  fight 

Where  he  led  the  charge  'gainst  Prentiss'  right. 

And  as  he  came  through  the  smoke  and  flame 

Old  Forrest  himself  was  heard  to  exclaim: 

"Just  look  at  Bullet  and  Trundle  Bed! 

I  tell  you,  boys,  they're  both  thoroughbred!" 

And  from  that  day  on  it  became  a  law, 

"Follow  Bullet  and  you'll  go  to  war!" 

To-day  he  rode  less  erect,  I  ween, 

For  he'd  had  a  battle  with  Gen.  Gangrene 

In  the  hospital  tent — (a  ball  in  his  chest 

For  riding  too  far  over  Kenesaw's  crest). 

But  even  while  tossing  with  fever  and  pain 

He  had  caught  a  whiff  of  battle  again, 

Just  smelt  it  afloat  in  the  sulphurous  air, 

And  he  knew,  somehow,  that  Forrest  was  there 

And  hard  pressed,  too — so,  'twixt  crutches  and  crawl, 

That  night  he  slipped  out  to  Bullet's  stall. 

A  whinnying  welcome — a  kiss  on  his  ear, 

"I'm  alive  yet,  Bullet— Trundle  Bed's  here!" 

A  pattering  gallop  at  first  daylight, 

The  boom  of  a  gun  on  Johnson's  right — 

"That's  Cleburne,  Bullet!    What  a  charming  fight!" 

Straight  at  the  sheeted  and  leaden  rain 

He  rode — Alas!  not  back  again! 

For  the  hot  fire  scorched  the  curls  of  brown, 

And  grape  shot  mowed  their  owner  down, 

And  the  heart  that  beat  for  mother  and  home 

Was  dumb  where  it  wept  and  wet  the  loam. 


IS8  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

And  dim  in  the  dust  the  blue  eyes  fine — 
But  Bullet  charged  over  the  Yankee  line. 

Charged  over  the  line! — then  he  missed  the  touch 

Of  the  rider  that  loved  him  over  much, 

And  he  wheeled  as  the  gray  lines  rose  and  fell 

'Neath  fire  like  fire  from  the  pits  of  hell, 

And  he  rushed  again  on  a  backward  track 

When  he  saw  the  Texas  brigade  fall  back. 

But  whose  was  the  form  that  caught  his  eye 

With  boots  to  the  guns  and  face  to  the  sky? 

And  whose  was  the  voice? — "Tell  mother  good-bye!'' 

And  why  were  the  curls  red?     His  were  brown — 

He  stopped  as  if  a  shot  had  brought  him  down! 

Hell  answered  hell  in  the  cannon's  roar, 

And  steel  cursed  steel — yet  he  stood  before 

The  form  he  loved; — for  he  knew  the  eyes 

Though  their  June  had  changed  to  December  skies. 

Hell  answered  hell  in  the  cannon's  roar, 

And  steel  cursed  steel — yet  he  whinnied  o'er 

The  form  he  loved,  while  the  grapeshot  tore! 

And  still  he  stood  o'er  the  curly  head — 

For  Bullet,  you  know,  was  thoroughbred — 

Till  a  solid  shot  plowed  a  cruel  rent, 

A  last  loving  whinny — and  Bullet  was  spent! 

The  burying  squad  in  blue  next  day 
Stopped  to  a  man  as  they  wiped  away 
A  tear — for  there  all  calm  'mid  the  wreck 
Was  Trundle  Bed  pillowed  on  Bullet's  neck! 

O  Union  great,   O  Union  strong, 

The  South,  you  say,  was  in  the  wrong, 

And  yet,  some  day,  when  the  foe  shall  come, 


FROM     TENNESSEE.  !5 

Some  day  at  the  beat  of  an  insolent  drum, 
When  the  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  unfurl'd 
Shall  stand  for  Home  in  Freedom's  world, 
The  first  their  blood  in  the  cause  to  shed 
Will  be — the  sons  of  the  thoroughbred! 

****** 

"WEARING  THE  GRAY." 
(A  Memorial  day  poem  for  the  Confederacy.) 

WEARING  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 
Battling  alone  in  the  world  of  to-day, 
Fighting  for  bread  in  the  battle  of  life, 
With  courage  as  grand  as  they  rode  to  the  strife. 
Marching  to  beat  of  Toil's  merciless  drum, 
Longing  for  comrades  who  never  shall  come, 
Comrades  who  sleep  where  they  fell  in  the  fray- 
Dead — but  immortal  in  jackets  of  gray. 

Wearing  the  gray  in  the  silvery  hair, 
Mortality's  banner  that  Time  planted  there! 
Wearing  a  gray,  while  the  tears  upward  start, 
A  gray  that  is  buried  down  deep  in  the  heart. 

Wearing  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 

The  old  line  marches  in  mem'ry  to-day — 

The  old  drums  beat  and  the  old  flags  wave — 

How  the  dead  gray-jackets  spring  up  from  the  grave! 

They  rush  on  with  Pickett  where  young  gods  would  yield, 

They  sweep  with  Forrest  the  shell-harrowed  field, 

They  laugh  at  the  bolts  from  the  batteries  hurled, 

Yet  weep  around  Lee  when  the  last  flag  is  furled. 


X6o  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Wearing  the  gray  o'er  the  temples  of  white, 
Time's  banner  of  truce  for  the  end  of  the  fight. 
Wearing  a  gray  that  was  worn  long  ago, 
With  their  face  to  the  front  and  their  front  to  the  foe. 

Wearing  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 

Longing  to  bivouac  over  the  way, 

To  rest  o'er  the  river  in  the  shade  of  the  trees, 

And  furl  the  old  flag  to  eternity's  breeze. 

To  camp  by  the  stream  on  that  evergreen  shore, 

And  meet  with  the  boys  who  have  gone  on  before. 

To  stand  at  inspection  'mid  pillars  of  light, 

While  God  turns  the  gray  into  robings  of  white. 

Wearing  the  gray  o'er  the  foreheads  of  snow — 
The  drum  beat  is  quick,  but  the  paces  are  slow — 
Wearing  a  gray  for  the  land  of  the  blest, 
When  life's  fight  is  o'er  and  the  rebel  shall  rest. 

Wearing  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 
Almost  in  the  valley,  almost  in  the  spray, 
Waiting  for  taps  when  the  light  shall  go  out, 
Yet  hoping  to  wake  with  a  reveille  shout! 
Leaving  to  Heaven  the  Right  and  the  Wrong, 
Praying  for  strength  in  the  old  battle  song — 
Praying  for  strength  in  the  last  ditch  to  stay, 
When  death  turns  his  guns  on  the  old  head  of  gray. 

Wearing  the  gray  in  the  paleness  of  death, 
For  the  angel  has  swept  with  a  garnering  breath! 
Wearing  a  gray  when  he  wakes  in  the  morn — 
The  old  rebel  jacket  our  dead  boy  had  on!    • 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  X6i 

THE  BELLS  OF  ATLANTA. 
(An  incident  of  the  Civil  War.) 

AUTUMN  sunset  on  Atlanta  painting  banners  red  of 
Mars — 

Twinkling  campfires  in  the  distance  like  ten  thousand  evening 
stars. 

For  the  foe  had  come  upon  her  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 

And  his  siege  guns,  like  grim  war  dogs,  waited  for  the  mor 
row's  fight. 

Down  the  valley  in  the  moonlight  lay  the  Gateway  of  the 
South, 

Fruitful  as  a  summer  grain  field  when  the  east  wind  breaks 
the  drought — 

Proud  as  harem  queen,  and  heedless — sleeping  'neath  the 
cannon's  mouth. 

Sabbath  sunrise  on  Atlanta,  issuing  in  the  steel-gray  morn, 
Turning  dark  hills  into  silver  as  the  crystal  light  is  born. 
Wakes  the  beaming  sky  in  beauty,  sleeps  the  somber  earth 

in  shade — 

Only  reveille  and  roll-call  mock  the  peace  that  God  has  made! 
And   the   siege   guns   ceased   their   dreaming — ceased    their 

dreaming  of  the  fray, 
Turned  their  horrid  fronts  to  eastward,  where  the  quiet  city 

lay — 
For  the  word  had  come  from  masters  they  must  open  on 

their  prey! 

Far  away  through  blue-domed  morning  rose  the  city's  thread 
like  spires, 

Lifting  up  the  southern  banner  to  her  heaven-kindling  fires; 

And  the  foemen,  seeing,  wondered — knew  they  fought  no  bat 
tle  wraith — 

For  the  finger  of  her  worship  was  the  flag-staff  of  her  faith ! 


162  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

Ay,  they  knew  that  in  that  banner,  fluttering  there  without  a 

flaw, 

Slept  the  nerve  of  Chickamauga  and  the  heart  of  Kennesaw — 
Slumbered  southern  hope  and  glory,  her  religion  and  her  law. 

"Aim  for  yonder  cursed  banner  flouting  from  that  tallest 
spire; 

Open  with  the  hundred-pounders — let  the  batteries  follow 
fire!" 

Thus  spake  Sherman,  and  his  army,  marshalled  in  the  hill 
top  sun, 

Waited  there  in  painful  silence  for  the  music  of  that  gun. 

And  those  siege  guns,  huge,  black-muzzled,  show  their  de 
mon,  ghoulish  lips, 

As  they  raise  their  necks  to  measure  where  the  blue  horizon 
dips — 

Where  to  spring  across  the  valley  when  their  leash  the  keeper 
slips. 

In  a  moment  on  the  city  there  would  rain  a  fire  of  hell; 

Solid  shot  would  mingle  thunder  with  the  shriek  of  shrapnel 
shell! 

Like  an  eagle  from  his  eyrie  falling  on  the  flock  below, 

Death  would  scream  across  the  valley  lighted  by  the  fuse's 
glow. 

Then  the  sergeant  grasps  the  lanyard,  while  erect  the  gunners 
stand, 

As  they  wait  in  dumb  obedience  for  the  Colonel's  stern  com 
mand — 

For  the  word  unloosing  thunder  on  this  heaven-basking  land. 

Suddenly,  far  down  the  valley,  came  a  faint  yet  tuneful  sound, 
Floating  from  the  tallest  steeple,  spreading  like  God's  halo 

'round. 
And  the  sergeant  dropped  the  lanyard  as  that  sweet  wave  rose 

and  fell, 


FROM    TENNESSEE,  ^3 

And  the  bristling  ranks  saluted — for  they  heard  their  own 
church  bell: 

Softly,  sweetly,  rising,  falling, 

Hark!  'tis  thus  the  paean  ran — 
Gently  chiding,  calmly  calling: 

"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man!" 

Heralding  to  pale  blue  morning 

Till  the  echoing  hilltops  start — 
Shell  and  shot  and  cannon  scorning: 

"Love  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart!" 

Out  it  pours,  full  heaven-throated, 

Caring  naught  for  glory's  pelf, 
Chiming,  as  it  upward  floated: 

"Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself!" 

God's  own  skylark  of  His  spirit! — sweeter  than  the  songs  of 

war, 

Grander  than  the  bass  of  battle  when  the  cannon  boom  afar — 
Mightier  than  the  thunder-organs  on  the  decks  of  Trafalgar! 

And  the  soldier  as  he  listened  saw  New  England's  hilltops 
rise — 

Saw  the  plains  of  Indiana  stretch  beneath  his  misty  eyes. 

Vanished  now  the  flags  of  battle,  gone  were  armed  host  and 
gun, 

And  his  own  sweet  native  village  lay  before  him  in  the  sun. 

It  is  Sabbath,  and  the  church  bells  call  him  now  to  worship 
God; 

Sabbath  there — yet  here  he  standeth,  ready  with  the  chasten 
ing  rod, 

Till  a  brother's  blood  shall  mingle  with  his  own,  his  southern 
sod. 


!64  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

'Tis  enough  —  the  flags  are  lowered  and  the  blue-steel  guns 

they  stack  — 
God  has  broken  ranks  where  cannon  never  yet  hath  turned 

them  back. 
All    day    long   the   rebel    banner,  flirting  while   the   winds 

caressed, 
Mocked  the  guns  that,  parked  to  westward,  crowned  the  hill 

tops  bristling  crest. 
All   day  long  the   Sabbath   sunlight   o'er  the  peaceful   city 

spread, 
Blending  blue  and  gray  battalions  in  the  soft  clouds  over 

head  — 
And  the  siege  guns  watched  and  wondered  why  their  keepers 

all  had  fled! 

Ring,  ye  church  bells  of  Atlanta!    Ring  till  sin  and  hate  shall 

cease! 
Ring,  till  nations  hear  thy  paeans,  and  the  founts  of  love 

release, 
And  the  notes  of  drums  are  drowned  out  in  thy  melodies  of 

peace. 


THE  JULIET  OF  THE  GRASSES. 

1AM  almost  afraid  to  tell  you  people  how  beautiful  the  world 
is  down  here  now,  for  fear  you  will  not  believe  it.  If  I 
had  lived  in  the  age  of  the  Aryan  fire  worshipers,  or  the 
Chaldean  star  worshipers,  or  the  Greek  and  Roman  wind 
and  sun  and  cloud  and  hero  worshipers,  I  would  not  have 
worshiped  any  of  these  things;  but,  in  ignorance  of  the  true 
God,  I  think  I  would  have  knelt  down  and  kissed  the  grass. 
Blue  grass  comes  nearer  to  God  than  anything  in  the  world. 
The  sun  is  too  bright  and  the  stars  are  too  far  off  and  the 
wind  and  clouds  too  uncertain  and  intangible;  but  grass, 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  165 

sweet  blue-grass  is  with  us,  and  soothes  the  eye  as  far  as  we 
can  see,  and  rests  the  heart  and  the  brain,  and  says,  as  plain 
as  language  can  say  it:  "Look  at  me,  for  I  am  a  type  of  im 
mortality."  It  is  so  natural  and  yet  so  grand,  so  heart-stir 
ring  and  yet  so  soothing,  so  simple  and  yet  so  beautiful. 

There  are  only  two  things  in  the  world  that  hurt  me 
worse  than  to  see  little  children  suffer:  one  is  to  see 
some  ruthless  fool  plow  up  a  grass  lot;  the  other  is  to  see  the 
same  person  cut  down  a  tree.  I  almost  hate  the  man  that  will 
wantonly  do  these  things. 

For  the  tree  seems  to  me  to  be  endowed  with  a 
personality  and  a  soul.  Some,  I  know,  are  bright  and  joy 
ous,  and  love  to  live  and  would  consort  with  their  kind;  while 
others  are  sad  and  lonely  and  take  life  hard.  And  the  grass 
— well  it  is  a  mighty  myriad  army  of  little  green  peoples  who 
love  to  grow  and  frolic  and  look  pretty  and  do  good.  You 
may  not  know  it,  but  they  are! 

O,  we  have  just  begun  to  live  in  this  world.  We  are  in 
our  very  infancy — a  lot  of  thick-headed,  bad-tempered,  selfish 
little  apes  who  think  we  know  it  all  and  that  we  are  great  and 
wise  and  are  living  like  God  intended  us  to  live.  But  if  we 
could  only  look  ahead  and  see  what  the  true  race  is  going 
to  be  a  million  years  hence!  We  will  be  less  than  the  Cliff 
Dwellers  to  them.  They  will  have  stepped  along  to  infinite 
heights  over  generations  of  progress,  and  do  you  know  what 
I  believe  the  great  characteristic  of  the  perfect  man  will  be? 
He  will  recognize  life  wherever  he  sees  it — in  stone,  in  tree, 
in  grass,  bird,  animal  and  man.  All  things  will  be  alive  to 
him,  and  he  will  respect  every  poor  little  life  that  lives  and 
the  rights  of  every  little  insignificant  thing  which  we  Ape- 
men  now  crush  beneath  our  feet.  And  he  will  love  every 
thing  that  God  has  made,  and  will  lie  down  with  the  grass, 
and  will  kiss  the  flowers  as  he  would  children,  and  will  lean 
on  the  tree  for  support  as  he  would  a  strong  brother.  And  as 
for  taking  a  human  life,  or  thinking  an  evil  thought,  it  will 
have  been  bred  out  of  him  long  ago! 


166  SONGS   AND   STORIES 

I  would  not  like  to  live  in  a  country  where  the  blue  grass 
did  not  grow.  Somehow  or  other  I  have  begun  to  as 
sociate  it  with  the  idea  of  Divine  good  will — that  God  has  sent 
it  as  a  special  sign  of  His  favor  and  esteem,  and  that  those 
unfortunate  countries  where  it  does  not  grow,  while  not  ex 
actly  under  the  ban  of  His  displeasure,  yet  do  they  stand  in 
a  kind  of  Esau,  as  compared  to  Jacob,  relationship  with  Him. 
For  that  reason  I  dislike  to  see  it  plowed  up,  and  when  I  see 
the  cold  steel  going  through  its  shimmering  sod,  and  turning 
the  long,  black  furrows  up  where  heaven's  own  carpet  lay  be 
fore,  I  feel  as  if  it  is  burying  a  thousand  little  fairy  friends 
I  knew  and  loved. 

Perhaps  another  reason  for  my  love  of  it  is  that  intuitive 
knowledge  that  tells  me,  when  I  see  it  in  abundance,  deep  and 
rich  in  the  valleys  and  changing  to  brighter  tint  on  the  swell 
ing  hillsides,  that  there  will  I  see  the  race-horse  in  the  glory 
of  his  strength  and  the  pride  of  his  ancestry;  there  will  I  find 
the  gentle  Jersey  and  the  splendid  Shorthorn,  and  the  flocks 
of  sheep,  startled,  perhaps,  at  our  approach,  and  moving  like 
a  white  billow  across  a  sea  of  green  and  emerald.  To  me, 
then,  it  has  come  to  represent  the  banner  of  the  live-stock  in 
dustry;  the  soul  of  speed;  the  coloring  that  gives  the  butter 
its  hue,  and  the  ariel  spirit  that  rollicks  in  the  contented  cud 
of  the  Southdown  and  the  Shorthorn.  I  would  like  to  live 
always  above  it,  but  since  I  cannot  do  that,  I  would  rather 
at  last  sleep  beneath  it  than  under  some  pile  of  clammy  stones, 
that  will  one  day  topple  over  to  let  the  lizards  know  how  dead 
my  memory  is. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  pagan  in  our  natures  yet,  else 
why  are  we  so  quick  to  personate  material  objects?  Almost 
involuntarily  do  we  ascribe  a  gender  to  the  inanimate  things 
around  us.  Sometimes  I  think  some  of  the  rules  of  our  gram- 
mer  might  as  well  be  changed,  and,  like  the  Latins,  let  us  call 
all  things  strong  and  mighty,  masculine,  and  those  weak  and 
delicate,  feminine.  This  would  also  give  me  a  chance  to  place 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  167 

blue  grass  where  in  my  dreams  it  has  ever  been — the  Juliet 
of  the  grasses. 

The  first  to  burst  from  the  earth  under  the  warming  rays 
of  the  early  spring  sun,  full  grown  before  her  colder  natured 
sisters  are  out  of  their  short  frocks,  she  is  a  thing  of  joy  and 
beauty,  of  impassioned  fruition,  voluptuous  loveliness  and 
romantic  impulses.  In  love  with  nature  and  herself,  she  wan 
ders  by  the  early  April  brooks  and  rejoices  in  the  first  songs 
of  the  meadow  lark;  a  true  philanthropist,  in  her  tenderness 
of  heart  she  feeds  from  her  bountiful  apron  the  early  lambs, 
and  slips  a  sly  blade  or  two  into  the  mouth  of  the  newborn 
colt,  as  with  dry  humor  he  makes  a  ridiculous  attempt  to  go 
through  the  first  evolutions  of  the  gait  his  nature  demands. 
A  true  little  housewife,  she  begins  at  once  to  put  her  room 
to  rights,  and  lo!  in  a  few  days  she  covers  her  valley  floors 
with  the  softest  of  Brussels,  and  decorates  the  hillside  walls 
with  her  own  favorite  color,  covering  even  the  bare  rocks 
and  framing  them  with  an  artist's  hand.  All  nature  is  in  love 
with  her.  The  sun  sends  his  sunbeam  children  to  play  with 
her  and  there  they  will  be  found,  the  warmest  and  rosiest;  here 
the  birds  congregate  to  sing  their  merriest  songs,  and  she 
passes  in  and  out  among  the  flocks  and  herds,  their  comforter 
and  lovely  shepherdess. 

Her  stoutly  built  Quaker  sisters,  the  Timothies,  come 
along  apace,  attend  strictly  to  their  own  business,  accomplish 
their  purpose  and  vanish.  That  prolific  wench,  the  Red 
Clover,  flounting  out  like  the  cook  in  her  Sunday  clothes, 
decked  with  many  colored  ribbons  and  smelling  of  rank  per 
fume,  raises  her  yellow  and  brown  children  and  goes  into 
winter  quarters.  Those  old  Scotch  maids,  the  Orchard 
Grasses,  come  along  after  awhile,  suspicious  and  wary,  un 
sociable  and  full  of  cranks  and  whims,  and  only  satisfied  when 
off  in  knots  and  clans  to  themselves.  Of  course  they  are 
afraid  of  the  cold,  and  the  first  cool  breeze  that  comes  from 
the  north  sends  them  after  their  winter  flannels,  and  they 
vanish.  In  sharp  contrast  to  them  are  the  Red  Tops,  a  lot 


1  68  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

of  pretty  flirts  who  flaunt  their  red  petticoats  in  the  face  of 
decent  people  and  cut  their  wild  capers  till  arrested  by  the 
mowing  blade  and  raked  in  for  safe  keeping.  A  few  wild 
ones  come  here  and  there,  but,  like  the  banana-fed  maids  of 
the  mild  islands,  their  rotundity  is  unsubstantial,  and  their 
days  are  as  short  as  their  one  garment  of  clothing.  Even  the 
crimson  clovers  rise  up  in  serried  ranks,  lift  their  bloody 
spears  to  heaven,  fight  their  battles  and  pass  away. 

But  what  about  the  little  Juliet?  She,  too,  blooms  and 
fades,  and  for  awhile  it  looks  as  if  she  will  go  the  way  of  the 
others.  Nothing  but  her  fiery  will  and  unconquered  nerve 
sustains  her.  Shorn  of  her  locks,  demure  and  gentle,  she 
fades  under  the  hot  sun. 

"But  death's  pale  flag  has  not  advanced  there,"  for  lo! 
the  gentle  rains  of  the  fall  come,  and  with  it  the  glow  of  her 
maiden  beauty.  Her  pulse  beats  fast  again;  she  delights  in 
the  whirr  of  the  partridge,  the  flight  of  the  wild  geese,  and  the 
flocks  of  the  black  birds.  The  lambs  are  grown  now,  but 
come  in  again  for  her  care  and  attention,  as  also  the  eager 
cattle  and  the  stately  mares.  And  so,  like  a  resurrected  dream 
of  spring,  she  makes  glorious  the  death  of  the  year,  sings 
the  swan-song  of  autumn,  and  hangs  her  garlands  of  im 
mortality  on  the  very  snow  king's  brow.  At  last  she  sleeps 
a  bit  —  but  just  a  little  nap  —  to  wake  again  in  the  morning  of 
the  year,  a  blessing,  a  poem,  a  picture. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  TENNESSEE. 

HE  valley  rolls  to  the  river 

And  the  river  is  tinged  with  fire 
As  the  beams  of  the  sunset  quiver 

Like  the  strings  of  a  golden  lyre. 
And  the  hills,  like  sentinels  olden, 

In  burnished  steel  they  glow, 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 

While  a  kiss  from  the  sunset,  golden, 
They  toss  to  the  valley  below. 

The  valley  rolls  to  the  river, 

But  the  cheek  of  the  river  is  wan, 
Like  the  lips  of  a  maid,  when  the  giver 

Of  the  kiss  in  the  twilight  is  gone. 
But  the  sentinel  hills  are  bolder; 

Like  giants  in  gloom  they  grow, 
And  with  forest  of  guns  at  the  shoulder, 

They  guard  the  valley  below. 


WHERE  THE  GLORY  LIES. 

THERE  is  beauty  in  the  hill-tops  clad  in  summer's  richest 
green, 
There  is  beauty  in  the  sparkling  brook  that  winds  its  way 

between, 

There  is  beauty  in  the  swelling  earth  and  in  the  arching  blue, 
But  the  glory  of  all  beauty  lies  in  friendship,  strong  and  true. 

There  is  grandeur  in  the  mountain  with  its  turrets  in  the  skies, 
There  is  grandeur  in  the  ocean  when  the  mighty  billows  rise, 
There  is  grandeur  in  the  storm-king,  stalking  with  destruc 

tion's  wraith, 
But  the  glory  of  all  grandeur  lies  in  simple  childhood  faith. 

There  is  glory  in  the  patriot's  sword,  that  flashes  from  its 

sheath, 
There  is  glory  in  the  warrior's  brow,  where  rests  the  victor's 

wreath, 
There  is  glory  in  the  statesman's  pen  and  in  the  nation's 

might, 
But  the  glory  of  all  glories  lies  in  doing  what  is  right. 


170  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

SAM  DAVIS. 

(The  martyrdom  of  Sam  Davis  is  not  equaled  in  the  an 
nals  of  war.  A  confederate  scout,  he  was  sent,  by  Gen.  Bragg, 
into  the  Union  lines  for  valuable  information.  Securing 
this,  much  of  it  from  a  Federal  officer  at  Nashville,  he  was 
returning  when  captured  near  Pulaski,  Tenn.,  by  the  Seventh 
Kansas  Cavalry.  He  was  court-martialed  and  condemned 
to  be  hanged  as  a  spy,  but  Gen.  G.  M.  Dodge,  the  Federal 
general  in  command,  pitying  his  youth  and  nobility  of  de 
meanor,  offered  him  his  life  if  he  would  give  the  name  of 
the  traitor  who  had  given  him  the  information.  This  Davis 
refused  to  do,  though  Gen.  Dodge  made  repeated  efforts  to 
induce  him  to  change  his  mind — even  offering  him  his  free 
dom,  upon  those  conditions,  after  he  was  on  the  gallows. 
Davis  refused,  saying:  "If  I  had  a  thousand  lives,  I  would 
give  them  all  before  I  would  betray  my  friends  or  the  con 
fidence  of  my  informer.") 

TELL  me  his  name  and  you  are  free," 
The  General  said,  while  from  the  tree 
The  grim  rope  dangled  threat'ningly. 

The  birds  ceased  singing — happy  birds, 
That  sang  of  home  and  mother-words. 
The  sunshine  kissed  his  cheek — dear  sun, 
It  loves  a  life  that's  just  begun! 
The  very  breezes  held  their  breath 
To  watch  the  fight  'twixt  life  and  death. 
And  O,  how  calm  and  sweet  and  free 
Smiled  back  the  hills  of  Tennessee! 
Smiled  back  the  hills,  as  if  to  say, 
"O,  save  your  life  for  us  to-day!" 

"Tell  me  his  name  and  you  are  free," 
The  General  said,  "and  I  shall  see 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  171 

You  safe  within  the  rebel  line — 
I'd  love  to  save  such  life  as  thine." 

A  tear  gleamed  down  the  ranks  of  blue — 

(The  bayonets  were  tipped  with  dew.) 

Across  the  rugged  cheek  of  war 

God's  angels  rolled  a  teary  star. 

The  boy  looked  up — 'twas  this  they  heard: 

"And  would  you  have  me  break  my  word?" 

A  tear  stood  in  the  General's  eye: 
"My  boy,  I  hate  to  see  thee  die — 
Give  me  the  traitor's  name — and  fly!" 

Young  Davis  smiled,  as  calm  and  free 
As  he  who  walked  on  Galilee: 
"Had  I  a  thousand  lives  to  live, 
Had  I  a  thousand  lives  to  give, 
I'd  lose  them — nay,  I'd  gladly  die 
Before  I'd  live  one  life,  a  lie!" 
He  turned — for  not  a  soldier  stirred — 
"Your  duty,  men — I  gave  my  word." 

The  hills  smiled  back  a  farewell  smile, 
The  breeze  sobbed  o'er  his  hair  awhile, 
The  birds  broke  out  in  sad  refrain, 
The  sunbeams  kissed  his  cheek  again — 
Then,  gathering  up  their  blazing  bars, 
They  shook  his  name  among  the  stars. 

O,  stars,  that  now  his  brothers  are, 

O,  sun,  his  sire  in  truth  and  light, 
Go,  tell  the  list'ning  worlds  afar 

Of  him  who  died  for  truth  and  right! 
For  martyr  of  all  martyrs  he 
Who  dies  to  save  an  enemy! 


!72  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

OUR  BOB. 

(Introducing  Gov.  Robt.  L.  Taylor,  in  his  famous  lecture, 
"The  Fiddle  and  the  Bow.") 

WITH  humor  as  sweet  as  our  Basin 
When  the  clover  bloom  gathers  the  dew, 
And  pathos  as  deep  as  our  valley 

When  the  clouds  shut  the  stars  from  our  view, 
With  wisdom  as  rich  and  as  fertile 

As  our  plains  when  they  first  feel  the  plow, 
And  wit  like  the  tapestry  frostwork 

That  hangs  on  the  Great  Smokey's  brow, 
With  grand  thoughts  as  strong  as  our  mountains 

And  tender  ones  sweetly  that  flow, 
Like  the  music  that  steals  o'er  our  senses 

At  his  touch  of  "The  Fiddle  and  Bow," 
The  bee  that  hath  sucked  every  blossom 

Each  Tennessee  flower  to  rob 
And  stored  up  the  rich,  golden  honey 

In  a  genius  that's  our's  —  Our  Bob! 


NORA. 

NQRA  came  out  of  the  big  farm  gate  and  strolled 
over  where  the  glad  wild  roses  grew  by  the  fence 
and  hung,  cornelian  wreathed,  on  walls  of  green.  And  her 
own  face  rivaled  the  roses  and  her  eyes  were  brighter  than 
the  thrush's  that  sat,  half-startled,  in  her  rose  leaf  home  in 
the  hedge.  And  her  hair  hung  down  in  golden  plaits,  like 
the  last  two  rays  of  sunset  on  the  twilighted  west. 

Nora  was  ever  beautiful;  but  this  evening  she  was  di 
vine  —  because  she  had  tasted  the  divinity  of  love. 

And  Nora  knew  she  was  in  love.  She  knew  it  because 
she  was  truthful  and  true  and  she  told  the  truth  to  all  peo- 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  173 

pie;  but  to  herself  she  was  truer  yet  and  dared  not  even  to 
deceive  herself  in  so  small  a  thing  as  a  false  wish. 

"For  false  wishes,"  she  said,  "are  false  children,  and 
they  grow  up  to  scoff  and  scorn  the  parent  heart  that  idly 
made  them." 

And  Nora  knew  she  was  in  love,  because  life  now  was 
so  different  from  what  it  was  before.  Besides,  were  not  all 
other  things  in  love?  The  roses — did  they  not  bloom  each 
morning  with  the  love-light  in  their  eyes?  Had  not  the 
thrushes  mated  and  gone  to  housekeeping?  Life — it  was  so 
different  now.  The  wind,  it  never  blew,  but  frolicked;  the 
rain,  'twas  but  the  clouds  sprinkling  the  grass  and  the 
flowers.  Her  household  duties  were  not  tasks,  but  pleas 
ures,  and  the  night  never  came  now — only  the  stars  to  wink 
at  her  in  silent  happiness  and  bless  her  in  their  sweet,  breath 
ing  light! 

Nora  knew  she  was  in  love. 

"How  grand  a  thing  it  is  to  be  in  love,"  she  caught  her 
self  saying  to  her  heart,  and  blushed  at  the  thought  of  the 
thought.  And  then,  to  hide  her  sweet  embarrassment,  she 
plucked  two  yearning  roses  and  fancifully  she  held  one  up 
to  each  cheek  to  wed  their  crimson  cousins  there.  "How 
grand  it  is!  How  it  lifts  one  up  above  the  common  things, 
to  the  sweet  region  of  that  other  world  where  each  bright 
star  is  hope,  and  every  crescent  moon  hangs  over  the  har 
vest  field  of  love!  Oh,  love,  love,  to  change  me  in  so  short 
a  while!  The  school  girl  to  the  maiden — the  maiden  to — to — 
to  his  angel" — she  laughed  and  stammered — "for  has  he  not 
himself  a  thousand  times  told  me?  O,"  she  said  aloud,  with 
a  little  surprised  gesture,  as  if  she  had  just  thought  of 
something  wonderful,  something  no  one  had  ever  thought 
of  before,  "O,  if  being  in  love  makes  one  so  different,  so 
well  satisfied  with  life  and  glad  to  be  alive,  why  did  not 
God  make  us  in  love  first  and  keep  us  ever  so?" 

"He  did  me,"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  and  the  roses  on 


174 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


the  hedge  were  pale  compared  with  those  that  rushed  to 
Nora's  cheeks. 

"How  could  you,  Tom?"  the  girl  laughed  as  she  pelted 
him  with  roses.  "How  silly  of  me  to  talk  out  loud!"  she 
added. 

"How  could  I  love  you?"  he  asked  seriously — not  notic 
ing  that  she  was  trying  to  turn  his  question  into  fun. 
"Don't  ask  me,  Nora — God  must  answer  that.  I  thought 
you  asked  why  God  did  not  make  us  in  love  at  first  and 
keep  us  ever  so,  and  I  told  you  that  he  did — at  least — me," 
and  Tom  looked  straight  into  her  honest  eyes. 

But  Nora's  eyes  were  no  longer  laughing.  They  were 
very  serious  and  solemn.  Her  face,  too,  had  lost  its  play 
ful  smile  as  quickly  as  it  had  its  scarlet,  and  now  it  was 
white — whiter  than  any  of  the  white  roses.  There  was 
something  in  Tom's  voice  and  look  that  Nora  had  never 
seen  before — a  manliness,  a  strength,  an  independence.  He 
was  passive  and  quiet,  but  Nora  saw  he  was  stronger 
now  than  he  was  the  day  he  tossed  the  hay  the  highest  on 
the  rick,  for  fun  and  a  wager,  and  more  resolved  and  more 
powerful  than  when  he  seized  and  held  the  rearing,  stub 
born,  untamed  colt. 

"O,  Tom!"  she  said,  as  she  saw  for  the  first  time  that 
Tom  loved  her.  "I—" 

"Listen,  Nora,"  said  Tom,  quietly.  "Have  I  not  always 
loved  you?  Way  back  when  we  toddled  together — neighbor 
farmers'  children — school  days — every  day — all  day — all  the 
time — now?  If  love  is  happiness,  then  am  I  a  god.  If  it  is 
wealth,  then  I  am  rich  indeed.  For  it  I  am  thankful — thank 
ful  that  I  have  known  you — thankful  that  I  loved  you — love 
you  now  and  always  will.  Although  I  know,'  he  said,  with 
out  moving  his  eye  from  her  face,  "that  you  will  soon  wed 
another — " 

The  red  roses  came  again.  "O,  Tom,  please  don't — " 
half  deprecatingly,  half  sorrowfully. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  ^5 

"No,  Nora,  let  me  talk  now.  Hereafter  my  lips  are 
sealed.  Go  the  way  of  your  heart — marry  him.  But  I?  I 
will  still  love  you.  I  did  not  create  it.  I  did  not  make  it, 
neither  can  I  destroy  it.  I  will  be  better  for  it,  truer,  a 
nobler  man,  I  hope.  I  am  happy  and  yet  miserable.  Happy 
when  I  think  of  you  and  miserable  when  I  think  you  are 
another's.  But  even  in  that  thought  I  am  happy  because 
of  my  love  for  you.  I  can  find  no  comfort  save  in  one 
thought  and  that  came  to  me  the  other  night  as  I  sat  think 
ing  of  you — your  wedding  day  next  week,"  he  said.  "And 
I  made  this  myself  because  I  was  so  wretched  and  I  wanted 
something  to  live  by  after  you  are  married.  I  must  ever 
love  you,  ever  worship  you,  for 

Love  is  a  star, 
To  be  worshiped  afar. 
And,  like  it,  should  be  above  us. 

"O,  Tom,"  said  Nora,  sadly,  for  her  heart  ached  for 
him,  "man's  love  is  different  from  ours.  You  will  think 
differently — "  but  she  was  too  honest  to  say  more — even 
too  honest  to  try  to  detain  him  as  she  saw  him  walk  sadly 
away. 

"Our  love  should  be  above  us,"  Nora  said  to  herself  as 
she  sorrowfully  watched  him  go  down  the  road.  "Ah,  Tom 
is  right — mine  is  above  me;  so  brilliant  and  grand  and  bright 
and — and — I  love  him  so!  But  Tom — poor  Tom,"  she  said  as 
she  went  in  the  gate,  for  the  twilight  had  come,  and  her 
father  had  lighted  his  pipe  and  the  far-off  aroma  of  tobacco 
smoke  filled  the  cool  evening  air. 

II. 

"I  cannot  be  with  you  to-night,  Nora,"  was  the  way 
the  note  read  which  her  father  brought  her  from  town. 
"I  am  more  than  busy  on  an  important  case  to  be  tried 
to-morrow.  I  have  studied  up  on  it  for  twelve  months — it 


176  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

will  be  all  over  in  a  few  days  and  then  for  my  Nora  and  the 
other  roses  at  the  old  farm.  I  am  busy  now — so  busy.  But 
in  the  midst  of  all  my  work,  do  you  know  how  often  I 
think  of  you  and  that  I  even  take  time  to  wonder  why  I 
love  you  so?  It  is  not  your  purity,  sweetness,  goodness, 
truthfulness  alone — but  something  that  tells  me  you  are  so 
far  above  me,  like  a  star  which  no  man  has  even  seen  before." 

"It  will  be  all  over  in  a  few  days,"  said  the  letter.  Alas, 
how  true.  For  the  bright  mind  went  out  that  night — a 
string  in  the  fine  organism  of  his  high-strung  soul  snapped 
under  the  long  work  and  tension,  and  the  wedding  was  post 
poned  forever.  *  *  *  Nora  did  not  know  how  many 
years  had  gone  by,  but  one  June  day  she  came  out  of  the  big 
farm  gate  and  strolled  over,  as  she  had  years  before,  where 
the  same  roses  grew  on  the  old  stone  fence  and  hung  just 
as  beautifully  around  the  walls.  And  the  same  love  was  in 
her  eyes,  but  it  was  a  sweet,  sad  love.  The  roses  were  red 
as  ever,  but  her  cheeks  rivaled  them  no  longer.  She  pulled 
the  roses  as  of  yore,  and  they  thought  the  night  dew  had 
fallen  on  them  when  she  raised  them  to  her  cheeks.  She 
looked  up  to  heaven  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes:  "Years 
ago,"  she  said,  "I  stood  here.  I  was  happy — so  happy. 
To-day,  thank  God,  I  am  happier,  far  happier.  Then,  my 
love  was  of  earth.  Now,  it  is  of  heaven.  Then,  he  was  a 
mortal.  Now,  he  is  a  god." 

She  looked  across  the  meadow  to  Tom's  home,  where 
his  children  were  playing  in  the  yard,  while  the  happy 
father  was  bustling  around.  A  faint  beam  of  pleasure,  that 
Tom  was  hap'py,  came  over  her  face,  and  she  said: 

"Ah,  Tom,  now  you  know  that  man's  love  is  not  like 
woman's: 

Love  is  a  star, 
To  be  worshiped  afar, 
And,  like  it,  should  be  above  us. 

"Yes,  above  us — above  us,"  she  whispered  through  her 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  ^7 

tears,  as  she  looked  up  once  more  to  the  stars  which  were 
just  beginning  to  come  out  one  by  one,  and  then  she  went 
silently  in  at  the  little  gate. 

And  again  the  aroma  of  tobacco  smoke  floated  out  in 
the  still  evening  air. 


IT  CAN  NOT  BE. 

IT  can  not  be  that  this  poor  life  shall  end  us  ! 
God's  words  are  truthful  and  His  ways  are  just. 
He  would  not  here  to  sin  and  sorrow  send  us, 

And  then  blot  out  our  souls  with  "Dust  to  Dust;" 
Saving  our  clay,  and  back  to  Nature  giving, 

Smothering  our  soul  ere  it  hath  had  its  living. 
It  can  not  bel 

It  can  not  be  that   One  so  just  and  perfect 
Would  make  a  perfect  universe,  and  plan 

The  star  of  all  should  be  at  last  imperfect  — 

Life,  yet  leave  that  life  half  lived  in  wretched  man. 

Forever  lives  the  gross  —  the  dead  material  — 

Forever  dies  the  life  —  the  spark  imperial? 
It  can  not  be! 

It  can  not  be,  for  life  is  more  than  living; 

It  can  not  be,  for  death  is  more  than  dream. 
Think  ye  to  clod  God  daily  life  is  giving, 

Yet  from  the  grave  shut  out  the  grander  beam? 
Night  is  but  day  ere  it  hath  had  its  dawning  — 
Death  a  brief  night,  and  waiteth  for  the  morning, 
Which  soon  shall  be! 

Thou  are  not  dead,  sweet  wife,  I  know  thou  livest, 

Thou  art  not  dead,  for  still  the  bright  stars  shine. 


!78  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Thou  art  not  dead,  for  yet  the  live  sun  giveth 
Light — and  had  he  e'er  so  sweet  a  light  as  thine? 
Good  night! — good  bye,  were  sorrow's  grave  of  sorrow! 
Good  night! — for  we  shall  live  and  love  to-morrow, 
Because  God  lives! 

/•H-H 
A  LITTLE  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

A  LITTLE  cry  in  the  night, 
And  fainter  still  at  the  dawn, 
And  the  shadows  creep — then  endless  sleep, 
Before  the  day  is  gone. 

A  little  cry  in  the  night, 

So  weak  and  yet  so  clear; 
For  many  a  day  has  passed  away 

And  yet  that  cry  I  hear, 

That  little  cry  in  the  night — 

With  the  pleading  eyes  of  blue — 

Wondering  why,  with  their  little  cry, 
They  must  live  and  suffer  too. 

Must  suffer  and  then  must  sleep, 
Tho'  their  day  had  just  begun — 

A  little  pain,  then  night  again, 
And  their  little  task  undone. 

A  little  cry  in  the  night — 

A  clear,  sweet  voice  at  even: 

"My  little  cry  was  just  good-bye, 
I'm  waiting  for  you  in  heaven." 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  179 

'TIS  BUT  A  DREAM. 

DEEP  in  the  night  a  timid,  pleading  voice, 
A  curly  head  above  my  pillow  bent, 
A  sob,  partaking  part  of  Hope's  rejoice, 

And  part  of  Doubt's   despair  and   sad  lament. 

Dear  nestling  head  —  sweet  sleep!   The  first  sunbeam: 

"O,   Father,  I'm  so  glad  'twas  but  a  dream!" 

Methinks  I,  too,  shall  wake  some  gracious  morn, 
After  life's  dream  and  death's  deep  hushed  night, 

And  as  God's  presence  ushers  in  the  dawn, 
And  His  smile  makes  an  aureole  of  light, 

Then  will  the  past  a  fretful  vision  seem: 

"O,   Father,  I'm  so  glad  'twas  but  a  dream!'* 


THE  SPELLING  MATCH  AT  BIG  SANDY. 

OLD  WASH  came  in  the  other  night  with  his  head 
tied  up,  three  inches  of  sticking  plaster  under  his 
left  eye,  and  a  cheese-cloth  containing  a  freshly-cut  chicken 
gizzard  bound  under  the  other  one. 

"Boss,  does  you  happen  ter  hab  er  bottle  uv  arniker 
handy?"  as  he  felt  of  his  head  to  see  that  his  bandages  were 
still  on. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you,  old  man?" 
was  asked.  "Any  camp-meeting  or  revival  going  on  over 
about  Indian  Springs?" 

"Wusser'n  dat!"  —  mournfully. 

"What!  You  don't  mean  to  say  the  election  for  deacon 
is  still  going  on?" 

"Boss  (solemnly),  hit's  wusser'n  'lection,  camp-meetin', 
reviler,  lynchin'  er  enything  else.  We  dun  had  er  spellin' 
match  ober  our  way"  —  and  he  jerked  out  his  left  leg  ener- 


X8o  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

getically — "an'  ef  eber  I  gets  my  ban's  on  dat  little  merlatter 
upstart  of  er  skule  teecher,  Ebernezer  Johnsing,  he'll  think 
de  Angel  Gabriel  done  blowed  his  trumpet  in  his  lef  year. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  as  he  wiped  his  mouth  on  the  back 
of  his  hand,  after  I  had  given  him  a  glass  of  Lincoln  Coun 
ty,  made  in  1878,  to  ease  his  misery,  "dar  hes  bin  er  pow'ful 
wak'nin'  on  egucashunal  questions  sence  dey  'lected  me  skule 
commisshuner  ober  dar.  We  'lected  Ebernezer  Johnsing  as 
teecher,  an'  at  de  fus'  meetin'  ob  de  boa'd,  sez  I:  'Johnsing, 
how  am  de  bes'  way  to  wak'n  dis  degenerit  race  ob  vipers 
up  on  de  impo'tance  ob  egucashun?  I'm  skule  commis 
shuner  heah  now,  an'  sumpin's  gotter  be  dun — dis  yer  race 
shan't  grow  up  in  ig'rance  an'  depravity  'round  me.' 

"  'Dar  am  jes'  two  t'ings  needed,'  sez  Johnsing.  'We 
need  plenty  uv  good  secon'-growth  hick'ry  an'  now  and  then 
er  spellin'  match,'  an'  den  he  'splains  whut  er  spellin'  match 
wus.  I  kno'd  I  wus  er  good  speller,  an'  dey  cudden't  bust 
my  influence  es  commisshuner  on  dat  line,  an'  I  jest  went 
right  in  fer  it.  I  got  er  good  egucashun  right  arter  de  wah, 
fer  I  went  ter  skule  fer  six  mon's  to  er  lady  frum  Bosting, 
dat  b'longed  to  de  'Sassiety  fur  Egucatin'  de  Nigger,'  an'  I 
took  mine  early  an'  deep.  I  wus  jes'  spilin'  ter  show  dem 
niggers  how  er  skule  commishuner  orter  spell,  ennyway,  an' 
de  naixt  Sund'y  Pawson  Shadrack  Meeshack  Phillips  read 
out  at  de  eend  ob  de  sarvice: 

"  'Dar  will  be  er  highly  amusin'  an'  instructive  entertain 
ment  at  Big  Sandy  skule  house  naixt  Friday  night  fur  de 
risin'  gen'rashun  an'  de  organ  fun'.  All  am  invited  to  pre 
cipitate.' 

"Wai,  I  went  ober  an'  tuck  all  de  fambly.  Dar  was 
er  big  crowd,  an'  de  gals  an'  boys  wus  gwinter  end  up 
wid  er  dance  an'  er  candy  pullin'.  It  wus  pow'ful  hot,  but 
dey  would  b'ild  er  big  fiah  in  de  skule  stove  an'  put  on  er 
big  pot  er  sorghum  fer  candy  stew. 

"  'Skuse  me,  boss!" — with  an  expression  of  intense  pain — 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  l8l 

"but  de  misery  in  dis  eye  am  'tickler  'xcruciatin'  jes'  now. 
Ernudder  drap  outen  dat  bottle,  ef  yer  please. 

"Wai,  I  'spected,  ob  co'se,  ter  be  de  one  ter  gib  out 
de  words,  but  dat  Johnsing  nigger  tuck  me  off  an'  demanded 
ter  be  erlowed  ter  gib  out  de  words  hisself,  'by  virtue  ob  de 
persishun  he  helt,'  he  sed.  'It's  not  bekase  I  can't  spell  all 
de  words  in  de  book,  Brudder  Washington,'  he  say,  'but 
sumtimes  I  gits  er  little  confused  an'  can't  git  up  de  flow  ob 
language  necessary  to  express  'em,  an'  ef  I  happen  ter  miss 
er  dozen  er  two  words,  sum  nigger,  not  onderstandin'  'bout 
my  lack  uv  expressive  language,  might  say  I  cudden't  spell 
an'  spile  my  influence  es  a  teacher  in  de  community.'  I  seed 
de  p'int,  an'  'lowed  him  ter  gib  out  de  words.  Dey  'lected 
me  cap'n  ob  one  side  an'  Brudder  Moses  Armstrong  cap'n 
ob  de  yudder.  We  chused  sides  an'  stood  on  er  plank  in  de 
floor  op'sit  one  ernuther.  Now,  de  lumber  wus  green  when 
hit  wus  put  down  fur  floorin'  an'  hed  shrunk,  an'  dar  wuz 
big  cracks  wid  ebry  plank.  'Sides  dat,  er  dozen  good  big 
shoats  hed  gone  up  under  de  skule  house,  w'ich  wus  on  de 
slant  ob  de  hill,  an'  dey  hed  crawled  es  fur  es  dey  could,  an' 
squeezed  deyselves  erginst  de  groun'  an  de  flo'  an'  gone  ter 
roost.  Dem  wus  all  little  t'ings,  but  I've  noticed  in  dis  life 
dat  it  am  de  little  t'ings  dat  happen  ebry  day  dat  turns  de 
tide  at  last.  Wai,  Johnsing  'lowed  he  b'leeved  in  objec' 
teachin',  an'  wanted  us  ter  fus'  spell  de  things  layin'  'round 
handy.  An'  he  picked  up  er  bottle  an'  he  sez  to  Moses  Arm 
strong: 

'"Spell  dis.' 

"  'I — n — k  ink,  s — t — a — n  stan,  inkstan','  sez  Moses. 

'  'Right,'  sez  Johnsing,  an'  he  picks  up  a  cheer  an'  sez 
ter  ernudder,  'Spell  dis,'  an'  de  yudder  spell  his  right  erlong: 

"  'C — h — double  e — r,  cheer.' 

"  'Right,'  sez  Johnsing. 

"An'  den  he  looked  at  me  an'  pick  up  er  little  sharp  stick 
dat  he  used  to  p'int  out  sums  on  de  boa'd  wid,  an'  he  say: 


182  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

"  'Brudder  Washin'ton,  spell  dis.' 

"  'P — i — n — t  pint,  e — r  er,  pinter,'  sez  I. 

"  'Dat's  wrong,'  he  say.  'Next,  spell  hit.'  An'  er  little 
nigger  on  de  yudder  side,  not  ten  years  ole,  an'  in  his  shut- 
tail,  jumps  up  quickly  an'  say: 

"  T — o — i — n — t  point,  e — r  er,  pointer.' 

"  'Right,'  sez  Johnsing;  'Brudder  Washin'ton,  you  will 
please  sit  down,  sah.  You  am  trapped.' 

"  'Trapped,  de  debbil,'  sez  I,  getting  hot.  'You  tell  me 
I  can't  spell  pinter — Hal  Pinter?  Ain't  I  dun  rub  him  off 
er  hun'red  times?  Ain't  I  done  gone  all  ober  de  Gran' 
Circus  wid  Marse  Ed  Geers?  Didn't  we  hab  our  pict'res 
tuck  at  Clebeland  togedder — an'  me  a  skule  commishuner  an' 
can't  spell  de  hoss  I  raised?  You  try  ter  disgrace  me  heah 
wid  dat  'ittle  stick  befo'  dis  community  dat  thou't  I  knowed 
sumpin'  'bout  er  hoss?  Yer  blossom  frum  offen  er  yaller 
dog-fennel,'  sez  I,  'I'm  ready  ter  wipe  de  flo'  wid  you,' 
an'  I  peeled  erway  at  'im  wid  my  fis'.' 

"Boss,"  said  the  old  man,  solemnly,  "I  don't  kno'  how 
hit  happened,  but  dey  say  dat  sum  ob  de  gals,  'spectin'  a 
fight,  made  er  break  ter  git  out  an  knocked  ober  de  pot  ob 
b'ilin'  candy,  an'  hit  poured  through  de  flo,  on  de  hogs 
sleepin'  below.  Nacherly  dez  riz  es  one  hog,  an'  es  dey  wus  es 
fur  under  de  house  es  dey  cud  go,  w'en  dey  tried  ter  scrouge 
under  furder  ter  git  outen  de  way  sumpin  hed  ter  bus',  an' 
dat  wus  de  plank  we  all  wus  on.  All  I  kno'  is  de  flo'  seemed 
ter  heave  up  an'  I  hit  de  ceilin'  'long  wid  er  dozen  er  mo' 
pettycoats  an'  striped  stockins.  Some  fool  nigger  hollered — 

"  'Yarthquake!  yarthquake!  Dinnermite!  dinnermite!' 
an'  when  I  hit  de  flo'  ergin  I  made  er  leap  fer  de  winder, 
t'inkin'  hit  wus  up.  But  hit  wasn't,  an'  I  went  on  t'rough, 
carryin'  de  sash  on  my  neck,  wid  my  haid  sticken'  outen  er 
six-by-eight  pane.  I  muster  galloped  two  miles  down  de  pike 
befo'  I  cum  to  and  seed  what  a  collar  I  hed  on. 

"But  look  year,  Boss" — pulling  a  bandage  down  under 


FROM    TENNESSEE  183 

his  eye — "doncher  kno'  no  winder  glass  didn't  git  me  this 
black  eye?  An'  look  yere,  too" — feeling  a  bump  as  big  as  a 
goose  egg  on  the  side  of  his  head — "doncher  kno'  I  didn't 
git  dat  gallopin'  down  de  road?  Dat  Johnsing  fotch  me  two 
licks  jes'  erbout  de  time  de  flo'  riz,  an'  de  fus'  time  I  ketch 
'im  on  de  pike  by  hisself,  I'm  gwinter  teach  'im  how  ter  spell 
P'inter  'er  resign  my  office,"  and  the  old  man  went  out  to  kill 
a  fresh  chicken  to  poultice  his  head. 


O 


THE  PINES  OF  MONTEREY. 

shadow  in  a  maiden's  eye 

Is  love  that  once  has  been! 
O,  sweet  moon-rainbow  in  the  sky 

That  shuts  our  poor  life  in! 

I  see  the  young  morn  blushing,  I  see  the  cheek  of  May 
Come  paling,  pinking,  flecking,  flushing- 
Through  the  pines  of  Monterey. 

Dear  evergreens  of  memory — 

Sweet  garlands  of  the  past — 
The  festooned  frame  of  pictured  sky 

That  will  forever  last! 

I  hear  the  faint  bells  ringing,  I  feel  the  breath  of  May 
Come  soughing,  soughing,  sobbing,  singing — 
Through  the  pines  of  Monterey. 

O,  voices  of  the  present  day, 

Vain  sounds  upon  a  blast — 
Leave  me,  let  me  weep  away 

The  sweet  tears  of  the  past. 

I  hear  her  dear  voice  calling,  I  hear  her  voice  to-day 
Come  laughing,  ling'ring,  falt'ring,  falling- 
Through  the  pines  of  Monterey. 


184  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

TO  AN  AMERICAN  BOY. 

BE  manly,  lad  —  your  folks  have  made 
Their  way  by  work  and  waiting, 
Be  manly,  lad  —  a  spade's  a  spade 

Though  it  hath  a  silver  plating. 
For  all  must  work  or  all  must  steal  — 

(What's  idleness  but  stealing?) 
To  each  will  come  his  woe  and  weal 

His  weak  or  strong  revealing. 
And  work  makes  brains,  but  error's  chains 

Are  forged  in  fashion's  idlene3s! 

Be  honest,  lad  —  you  weaker  grow 

From  gain  that's  falsely  gotten. 
Be  honest,  lad  —  what's  outward  show 

When  all  within  is  rotten? 
For  each  must  live  or  each  must  die  — 

(What's  honor  lost,  but  dying?) 
To  live  with  Truth  and  you  a  lie!  — 

Was  ever  death  more  trying? 
And  Truth  makes  men  —  but  falsehood's  den 

Is  the  home  of  dwarfs  and  pigmies! 


WONDERFUL  MEN. 
(To    My   Mother.) 


Truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius  Caesar. — Long 
fellow.  

TRULY  a  wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius  Caesar, 
Strong  his  will  as  his   sword  and  both  of  Damascan 
mettle, 

Wonderful  in  his  wars,  more  wonderful  yet  in  his  writings, 
Firm  his  words  and  quick  as  the  tramp  of  a  Roman  legion, 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  185 

Grand  his  thoughts  and  high  as  his  standard,  the  Roman 

eagle. 

Whether  'mid  gloomy  woods,  facing  a  foe  barbaric, 
Seizing  a  shield  and  a  sword  to  turn  the  Nervian  torrent, 
Or  'mid  Thessalonian  plains  sweeping  Pompeian  forces, 
Or  guiding  with  wisdom's  reins  the  greatest  of  all  the  nations, 
Always  the  wonderful  man — Caius  Julius  Caesar. 

And  yet,  O  wonderful  man,  O  wonderful  Julius  Caesar, 
In  all  your  wonderful  works  no  mention  is  made  of  your 

mother, 

In  all  your  wonderful  fights,  you  made  no  fight  for  woman! 
And  know  you,  wonderful  man,  imperial  Julius  Caesar, 
From  whom  your  wonderful  nerve  and  wonderful  heart  for 

battle? 
'Twas  she  who  flinched  not  beneath  the  cruel  knife  of  the 

surgeon, 

Fighting  a  battle  for  you,  grander  than  Gaul's  or  Egypt's, 
Bringing  you  into  the  world  and  moulding  you  in  her  like 
ness, 

Stamping  your  soul  with  fire  and  stamping  your  mind  with 
greatness. 

And  truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Cicero,  the  orator, 
Pure  his  words  and  free  and  grand  as  a  flowing  river, 
Lofty  his  flights  and  swift  as  an  eagle  soaring  upward, 
Showing    to  men    through    the  rift  the  glory    and  beauty 

above  them. 
Clenching  the  wisdom  of  years    he    hurled    it    with    might 

Titanic, 

Yet  tender  even  to  tears  when  a  Roman  life  hung  on  it. 
Musical  oft  his  words,  as  the  march  of  the  planets  above 

him, 
Now  sweet  as  the  Lesbian  birds,  now  stern  as  the  shock  of 

battle. 


l86  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

And  yet,  O  wonderful  man,  O  greatest  of  ancient  speakers, 
In  all  your  wonderful  works  no  mention  is  made  of  your 

mother, 

Of  all  your  speeches  grand,  not  one  was  made  for  woman! 
And  yet  'twas    she  who  gave  you    depth  and    beauty  and 

sweetness, 

The  voice  to  mimic  the  wave,  the  brush  to  paint  the  lily. 
'Twas  she  who    sowed  in  your    soul  the    seeds  of  fanciful 

flowers, 
Erected  aloft  your  goal  and  gave  you  the  strength  to  win  it. 

And  O,  a  wonderful  man  was  Horace,  the  lyric  poet, 
Studding  his    sky    with    stars    and    decking    his  earth  with 

meadows, 

Singing  a  song  to  his  love  while  she  blushes  adown  the  ages, 
Covering  the  ruins  of  Time  with   the  fadeless  leaf   of  his 

laurel — 
Concealing  the  broken  vase  with  the  immortal  bloom  of  his 

roses. 

And  yet,  O  wonderful  man,  O  sweetest  of  ancient  poets, 

Who  gave  you  the  hue  to  paint  the  carmiel  cheek  of  your 
roses, 

Your  lute,  that  sounds  even  now,  through  the  mellow  twi 
light  of  ages; 

Who  gave  you  the  pure,  true  eye  for  watching  and  loving 
all  nature, 

And  tuned  your  wonderful  lyre  till  old  Time  stops  to  listen? 

A  wonderful  creature  was  she, — a  wonderful,  wonderful 
woman — 

And  yet,  we  ne'er  had  known,  had  we  waited  your  muse  to 
tell  it! 

O  these  were  wonderful  men,  and  wonderful,  too,  their 
country, 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  187 

And  yet  it  has  passed  away,  as  a  bubble  when  Time  blows 

on  it; 
Passed,  as  they  all  have  passed,  where  might  is  greater  than 

Mother, 
Passed,  as  they  all  have  passed,    where    wife    is   less    than 

mistress, 
Passed,  as  they  all  will  pass,  who  have  no  throne  for  woman. 


HOW  THE  BISHOP  BROKE  THE  RECORD. 

(Old  Wash  is  a  Baptist  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty 
and  many  misgivings  that  I  induced  him  to  go  out  to  the 
Episcopal  church  recently  and  hear  the  Bishop  of  Tennessee 
preach.  The  old  man  went  wild  over  the  sermon  and  this 
is  the  peculiar  way  he  took  to  tell  about  it.) 

WAL,  sah,  I  went  in  dar  an'  sot  down  in  dat  part  of  de 
gran'  stand  set  off  fur  de  colored  folks.  I  look  er- 
roun'  an'  seed  leetle  bannisters  an'  things  runnin'  'round 
'bout  de  prooties'  an'  neates'  mile  track  you  eber  seed,  wid 
de  fence  all  painted  wid  gold  an'  lit  up  wid  'lectric  lights. 
Butiful  pictures  hung  up  in  de  club  house  gallery  an'  de 
soft  light  cum  in  through  de  painted  winders.  I  tell  you, 
sah,  dese  yere  Piscolopiums  kno'  how  to  keep  up  dey  church 
track,  if  dey  do  stick  to  de  high  wheel  sulky,  an'  kinder  think 
dat  er  record  made  dar,  at  dat  way  ob  gwine,  will  'title  'em  to 
registration  in  de  final  year  book  quickern  enny  yudder  track. 
An'  it  wus  er  good  un  —  for  it  run  erroun'  es  smooth  es  er  wid- 
der's  courtship  an'  it  hed  bin  harrered  an'  scraped  an'  rolled 
till  it  wus  es  slick  es  er  carpet  ob  banana  peels. 

"You  ain't  nurver  noticed  how  dese  church  tracks  differ 
frum  one  er  nudder,  hes  you,  Boss?"  asked  the  old  man,  with 
a  sly  smile.  "Wai,  dey  do.  Now,  ef  dat  hed  bin  er  Mefodis 
track  it  wouldn't  er  hed  no  fence  erroun'  it,  kinder  free  fur 


r88  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

all,  no  money  to  be  paid  at  the  gate  and  free  lunch  fur  ebry- 
body.  If  it  had  bin  a  Baptis'  track  it  would  er  bin  out  in 
some  big  medder  bottom,  an'  stid  ob  bein'  roun',  it  would 
jes'  foller  de  meanderins  ob  de  ribber,  handy  fur  spungin' 
off  de  horses.  An'  dey  wouldn't  'low  nuffin'  to  go  on  dat 
track  but  pacers,  either,  an'  dey  must  all  be  ob  de  Hal  fambly 
— kinder  close  kin,  yer  kno'.  De  Presberterians  would  er 
had  dey  track  es  'roun'  es  it  cu'd  be'  an'  sech  er  high,  white 
washed  fence  'roun'  it  dat  nobody  cud  see  ober  it,  an'  'bout 
ebry  haf  hour  dey  would  run  out  er  big  fo'-hoss  sprinkler, 
furever  sprinklin'  an'  sprinklin'  it,  eben  fur  de  yearlin'  races. 
O,  it's  funny  ter  see  how  dey  all  deffer,"  he  said. 

"But  dar  dis  one  wus,  es  prooty  es  it  cu'd  be,  an'  free 
fur  all.  An'  jes'  off  to  de  lef  dey  had  de  nices'  leetle  jedges' 
stan'  all  painted  in  silver  an'  trimmed  wid  gold,  while  de 
timers'  box  sat  on  de  right  wid  leetle  peep  holes  in  it  an' 
pictures  ob  flyin'  things  wid  wings  jes'  erbove — hosses  dat 
had  broken  de  recurds,  I  spec.  Jes'  den  de  ban'  in  de  ban' 
stan'  struck  up  de  sweetes'  music  I  urver  heurd.  It  went  all 
through  my  soul  an'  made  me  feel  like  I  wus  er  chile  ergin 
an'  my  good  ole  mammy,  long  dead  an'  gone,  wus  singin' 
me  ter  sleep  at  de  cabin  on  de  ole  plantashun,  to  de  tune 
ob  'De  ole  folks  at  home.'  Den  de  perfume  floated  out  like 
de  smell  ob  de  jess'mins  I  useter  smell  by  de  cabin  do', 
an'  de  candles  flickered  on  de  quarter  posts  like  de  fireflies 
in  de  dusk  ob  my  childhood  days,  an'  all  dese  things  jes 
made  me  hongry  to  heah  sum  good  gospil  ergin.  Bimeby, 
sum  leetle  angel  boys  all  dressed  in  white  wid  shinin'  col 
lars  cum  marchin'  in  singin'  an'  bringin'  programs  fur  de 
races  in  dey  han's — leastwise  dat's  what  I  tuk  'em  to  be. 
I  tell  you,  sah,  it  wus  gran',  an'  es  I  sot  dar  an'  tuck  it  all  in 
an'  looked  at  dat  shinin'  track  wid  de  golden  fence,  I  sed 
to  myself: 

"'Great  Scott!  but  ef  dey  can't  go  fast  on  dis  track  I 
lakter  kno'  whut  de  yuse  ob  tryin'  enny  yudder!' 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  189 

"When  de  music  stopped  de  feller  in  de  j edges'  stan' 
made  some  'nouncements  an'  den  he  'lowed  dat  de  Bishop 
ob  Tennessee  would  go  er  exerbishun  mile  ergin  time,  an' 
den  I  heurd  de  bell  ring  tingerling,  tingerling,  an'  de  ban' 
struck  up  lively  lak,  an'  de  Bishop  cum  pacin'  in.  Soon  es 
I  looked  at  'im,  sez  I: 

"  'He'll  do — he's  er  good  un!  Got  mos'  too  much  riggin' 
on  'im  to  suit  my  taste,  but  den  ebry  man  knows  whut's  bes' 
fur  his  own  hoss.  Ef  he  wus  mine  I'd  take  off  dat  sweater 
an'  white  blankit  wid  red  embroidery,  dem  knee  boots  an' 
dat  obercheck.  His  gait's  all  right  an'  true  es  clockwork, 
an'  he  don't  need  nuffin'  but  er  pair  ob  quarter  boots  an' 
fo'-ounce  shoes.  But  dat's  all  right/  I  sed  ergin,  'eberybody 
knows  whut's  bes'  fur  his  own  hoss  an'  dem  fancy  riggins 
am  prooty,  ter-be-sho'.' 

"Graceful?  He  wus  es  graceful  es  er  swan  on  er  silver 
lake,  an'  es  he  paced  up  de  quarter  stretch  to  sco'  down,  I 
seed  dat  he  wus  gwinter  gib  de  recurd  er  close  call.  Down 
he  cum  so  smooth  you  cudden't  see  his  riggin',  an'  es  nachul 
es  er  eagle  draps  frum  his  mountin  peak  in  de  valley  belo'. 
Dey  didn't  hafter  say  'go'  to  him  but  onc't  an'  den  he  went 
er  way  lak  er  winged  angel  on  de  top  spar  ob  er  flyin'  yot.' 

"  'He  that  loseth  his  life  for  my  sake  shall  save  it/  he 
said,  an'  ebry  lick  he  hit  went  home  to  de  ole  man's  hart. 
O,  hit  wus  er  clip.  He  tuck  up  Greek  art  an'  literachure  an' 
he  painted  it  so  beautiful  you  cud  see  de  statue  ob  Diana 
beam  outen  his  eyes  'an'  de  grace  ob  Apollo  fall  frum  his 
hands.  Away  he  went  at  dat  prooty  clip  till  he  sud'n'y 
shifted  his  gait  an'  struck  de  follies  ob  dis  wurl,  an'  den  I 
seed  whut  all  dat  riggin'  wus  fur,  fur  he  turned  it  into  er 
toga  an'  he  looked  like  Jupiter  es  he  shook  de  roof  wid  his 
speed  an'  his  stride." 

"  'He's  gwine  too  fast  fur  de  fus'  quarter/  I  sed,  as  I 
sot  holdin'  my  bref;  but  befo'  de  wurds  wus  out  he  seed  it, 
too,  an'  he  check  up  er  leetle  an'  he  cum  down  es  gently 


I9o  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

es  de  summer  winds  play — but  ergitten'  dar  all  de  time! — an' 
den  he  tell  us  how  all  dis  art  an'  all  dis  interlect  want  nuffin' 
ef  we  didn't  lub  God  an'  do  right  an'  lib  pure  libes,  an'  his 
voice  wus  lak  de  music  ob  de  winds  in  de  valley,  an'  ebrything 
he  say  jes'  peer  to  be  dat  way  an'  no  argyment — and  all  de 
time  he  wus  jes'  ergitten'  dar — an'  es  he  passed  de  fus'  quarter 
I  cudden't  help  it,  I  jes'  tuck  out  my  ole  watch  an'  snapped 
it,  an'  dar  it  stood — 30  seconds,  holy  Moses! 

"But  dat  didn't  wind  'im,  for  he  started  in  de  naixt  quar 
ter  so  fas'  I  thout  sho'  he  gwine  fly  in  de  air.  But  he  didn't. 
He  fairly  burnt  up  de  track  ob  sin  an'  folly  an'  littleness  an' 
meanness,  an'  he  made  de  leetle  rail  birds  ob  selfishness  fly 
to  de  woods,  an'  de  gamblers  ob  society  went  off  to  hedge, 
an'  de  touts  ob  scandal  slunk  erway,  an'  de  drivers  of  trick 
an'  cheat  hunted  for  ernuther  track,  an'  de  timers  of  folly 
throwed  erway  dey  watch — an'  all  de  time  he  wus  ergittin' 
dar — an'  he  nurver  teched  hissef  nur  struck  er  boot  nur 
missed  his  clip,  an'  he  made  de  ole  high  wheel  sulky  trimble 
all  over  lak  er  leaf  in  de  storm,  an'  he  showed  how  ebrybody 
reap  whut  dey  sow;  how  de  artis'  lib  in  art,  an'  de  poit  in 
poltry,  an'  de  patriot  in  de  harts  ob  his  countrymen,  all  arter 
dey  dun  dead  an'  buried.  An'  'O,'  he  sed,  so  sarchin'  lak 
I  see  de  folks  trimble,  'ef  you  lib  fur  de  wurl  you'll  die  wid 
de  wurl;  but  ef  you  lib  fur  God  you'll  nurver  die.'  An'  I  cud 
see  it  all  so  plain  an'  so  quick  an'  so  terribul  an'  so  true  I 
jes'  pulled  out  my  ole  timer  ergin  es  he  passed  de  haf,  an' 
click!  dar  she  stood — 59%! 

"  'By  de  horn  ob  de  Tabbernacle,'  sez  I,  'he  can't  keep 
up  dat  clip!  Dat's  de  haf  dat  burnt  up  Joe  Patchen!' 

"But  I  tell  you,  Boss,  his  name  wus  P'inter — he  had  no 
noshun  ob  quittin'.  He  spun  erlong  on  de  straight  stretches 
lak  he  had  er  runnin'  mate,  an'  you'd  wonder  whut  hilt  'im 
to  de  yearth,  den  he  ease  up  gently  on  de  turns  ob  de  track — 
whar  he  hit  de  doubters  an'  de  'siety  an'  de  fools  'dat  grasp 
at  de  bubbles  ob  wealth  an'  folly  on  de  ribber,  an*  let  de 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  I9I 

mighty  stream  wid  all  its  depth  an'  grandeur  pass  onnoticed 
to  the  ocean' — as  he  sed,  he  ease  up  dar  an'  ketch  his  bref 
so  gently  lak,  and  sorrerful,  you'd  think  he  gwine  stop  an' 
weep  fur  'em,  an'  you  feel  lak  weepin'  yourse'f,  fur  yore  own 
follies  an'  de  follies  ob  de  wurl — but  all  de  time  he  wus  gittin' 
dar! — an'  ef  he  did  ease  up  es  he  went  up  de  hill,  it  wus  only 
jes'  long  enuf  ter  let  de  light  shine  down  on  him  frum  heben, 
an'  he  seemed  to  linger  jes'  er  minnit  in  de  sweetnes'  ob  its 
glory. 

"I  wiped  erway  a  tear  an'  snapped  my  ole  timer  ergin — 
1:30%!  'Dat's  good  Baptis'  doctrine,'  sez  I,  'ef  it  am  a  trifle 
speedy.  Lord,  ef  he  do  bust  de  recurd  I  hope  you'll  gib  'im 
de  Atlantic  ocean  to  spunge  off  in — sumpin'  in  keepin'  wid 
his  own  nachur.'  An'  den  I  close  my  eyes  gently  lak,  I  feel 
so  good,  an'  I  sing  softly  to  mysef  dat  good  ole  hymn,  sung 
by  Moses  an'  de  profets  so  long  ergo: 

'Baptis',  Baptis'  is  my  name 

I'm  Baptis'  till  I  die. 
I've  been  baptized  in  de  Baptis'  church, 
Gwin'ter  eat  all  de  Baptis'  pie! 

Hard  trials, 
Great  tribelashuns,  chilluns, 

Hard  trials, 
I'm  gwine  ter  leab  dis  wurl.' 

"But  bless  you,  honey,  he  wus  jes'  playin'  on  dem  yudder 
quarters;  he  commenced  to  pace  now.  He  got  right  down 
on  de  groun,  an'  dough  he  didn't  make  no  fuss  an'  you 
cudn't  see  er  moshun,  nur  eben  de  spokes  ob  de  sulky,  he 
talked  lak  er  dyin'  muther  to  her  wayward  boy.  He  scorned 
de  track  of  dis  wurl  an'  seemed  to  be  pacin'  in  de  pure  air 
ob  God,  an'  yit  he  didn't  rouse  er  angry  wind,  nur  bring  out 
de  loud  shouts  from  de  wurldly  gran'  stan',  nur  de  hoozars 
of  victory,  nor  de  wild  frenzy  ob  delight — but  des  tears,  sweet 


1  92  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

tears.  I  cried  lake  er  baby.  I  furgot  ter  time  'im.  De  soft 
light  cum  in  frum  de  winder  ob  God  an'  got  inter  de  winder 
ob  de  ole  man's  hart.  De  smell  ob  ae  yearthly  flowers  wus 
turned  to  Heabenly  ones,  an'  when  his  soft,  'pealin'  voice  died 
away  an'  de  sweet  'pealin'  music  commenced,  I  cudn't  tell 
whar  de  sermin  ended  an'  de  music  begun,  dey  run  togedder 
so.  I  sot  in  er  sort  ob  er  dream;  I  wanted  to  go  to  Heaben;  I 
heurd  de  white  folks  all  pass  quietly  out;  I  heurd  de  notes 
cb  de  organ  die  erway,  but  I  sot  in  de  cornder,  way  off 
by  mysef,  an'  thanked  God  dat  I'd  seed  de  light  an'  heurd 
de  recurd  ob  salvation  busted." 


CHRISTMAS  MORN. 

IN  the  beauty  of  its  breaking,  in  the  music  of  its  dawn, 
Like  an  angel  chorus  'waking  when  the  Heavenly  day  is 
born,  — 

Comes  again  the  day  of  promise, 
Comes  again  the  Christmas  morn. 
Beam,  bright  Eastern  sky  in  glory,  till  our  doubt  clouds  roll 

away; 

Ring,  sweet  Christmas  bells  the  story,  —  ring  forever  and  for 
aye, 

Till  our  living  be  but  loving 
And  our  dying  be  but  day. 


TO  WHITTIER,  DEAD. 

AY,  speed  thou  on,  gray  voyager, 
But  not  to  a  breezeless  sea! 
Nor  shall  oblivion  claim  the  soul 
That  lived  and  loved  in  thee. 


FROM     TENNESSEE.  193 

The  heart  that  throbbed  for  others, 
The  mind  that  thought  no  wrong, 

The  lips  that  always  spoke  the  truth 
Through  soul  of  courage  strong, 

Oh,  these  shall  live  forever, 

God  gave  them,  not  to  die, 
But  sweetly  bloom  above  thy  tomb 

Through  all  eternity. 


MORNING. 

TIP-TOE  on  morning  star,  'mid  purpling  light, 
The  day  queen  throws  her  kisses  to  the  world, 
Then  stands  abashed  a  moment,  as  in  plight 

From  maiden  shyness,  while  around  is  filrl'd 
The  fleecy  lace  of  clouds,  with  skirts  of  blue 
Trailing  adown  to  hills  of  azure  hue. 

A  sudden  flirting  of  a  dew-wet  wing, 

As  out  from  leafy  bush  or  hedge-thatched  lair 
The  throbbing  throats  at  once  begin  to  sing 
And  distant  pipes  fall  on  the  sweet,  cool  air. 
The  cattle  rise  from  shaded  beds  along, 
And  add  their  cow-bell  cymbals  to  the  song. 

Deep  spreads  the  blush  around  Aurora's  cheeks, 
Purpling  the  bloom  of  ripen'd  lips  —  and  then 
Closer  she  draws  her  drapery  as  she  seeks 
To  hide  her  beauty  from  the  eyes  of  men. 
And  lo!  the  jealous  sun  leaps  up  to  fold 
Her  melting  glory  in  his  arms  of  gold. 


194  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

HOW  ROBERT  J.  BROKE  THE  RECORD. 

LAST  week  I  took  old  Wash  up  to  Terre  Haute  to  see 
Robert  J.  go  against  the  world's  record.  He  was 
turned  loose  with  Billy  Fitzgerald,  Ed.  Geer's  Tennessee 
cook,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  the  old  man  till  he  came  in  Sat 
urday  night  in  a  semi-comatose  condition  and  proceeded  to 
tell  us  how  Robert  J.  broke  the  record: 

"Marse  Ed  cum  out  on  de  track  wid  dat  ornery-lookin' 
little  pacer.  Yer  wouldn't  gib  fifty  dollars  fer  dat  hoss,  boss, 
ef  you'd  er  seed  'im  in  de  stall,  he's  dat  no-'count-lookin'  an' 
sprung-kneed  an'  cat-hammed.  But  on  de  track  you'd  gib 
fifty  t'ousan'  for  de  shake  ob  hees  tail  an'  t'ank  Gord  fer  de 
prib'lege  ob  seein'  'im  shake  it.  I've  heurd  ob  de  transfo'- 
mashun  ob  de  prophet,  but  he  ain't  in  it  wid  Robert  J.  Marse 
Ed  sot  quiet  lak  an'  onconsarned,  but  de  white  folks  clap  dair 
han's  an'  holler  w'en  he  jog  by.  Marse  Ed  nod  hees  haid, 
same  es  ter  say,  'Much  'b'leeged  ter  yer  all,  but  dis  yer  am  my 
busy  day,'  an'  he  jog  on  'round.  Torectly,  de  big  white  man 
dat  sot  in  de  roun'  box  an'  wave  de  red  flag  at  de  hosses  and 
talk  sassy  to  de  drivers  ef  dey  don't  score  down  right,  he  got 
up  an'  he  say,  'Stop  er  moment,  Mistah  Geers,'  an'  Marse 
Ed  he  stop.  Den  de  boss  man  turn  'round  to  de  big  stan' 
whar  all  de  white  folks  sot,  an'  he  say:  'Ladies  and  gen'el- 
mans,  Robert  J.,  de  great  pacer  f'om  Tennessee,  driven  by  de 
onliest  Edward  Geers,  will  now  go  ergin  de  worl'  record  ob 
two,  two  an'  a  half.  I  beg  yer  ter  keep  quiet  twell  de  record 
am  busted." 

"Come!  come!  You  know  he  didn't  say  Tennessee  horse. 
Robert  J.  was  bred  in  Pennsylvania,"  I  interrupted. 

"Boss,  I'm  tellin'  yer  whut  I  heurd  myse'f.  Ef  you  wants 
ter  make  a  pome  outen  et,  in  cou'se  yer  kin  'range  de  fac's 
ter  suit  youse'f.  I  wus  dar  un  heurd  'im  say  et." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"De  people  all  clap  der  han's,  an'  hoorayed  ergin,  an' 
Marse  Ed  jogged  on  back  up  de  stretch,  lookin'  lak  he  jes' 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  195 

gwine  ter  mill  fer  er  bushel  er  meal  an'  'lowed  ter  git  back 
'long  tow'ds  sun-down.  But  fus'  t'ing  I  knowed  I  heurd  er 
kinder  patter-patter,  patter-patter,  patter-patter,  an'  den  er 
kinder  bipperty-bip,  bipperty-bip,  bipperty-bip,  an'  I  look  up 
an'  heah  cum  dat  little  old  pacer,  jes'  er  flyin',  wid  er  runnin' 
hoss  in  er  sulky  by  he  side,  an'  er  doin'  all  he  could  ter  keep 
up.  I  grab  er  white  man  by  me  an'  say: 

"Mistah,  don't  dat  man  cum  wid  hees  grist  in  er  hurry?" 
But  de  man  punch  ernudder  man  standin'  by  'im,  an'  say: 

"  'Ven  did  dis  coon  coom  outen  de  'sylum?' 

"But  I  was  lookin'  at  dat  Robert  J.  an'  de  w-a-y  he  did 
fly!  Down  de  track  he  went,  turnin'  de  corner  lak  a  skeered 
cat  goin'  'round  de  kitchen  chimbley  wid  de  yard  dog  arter 
'im.  But  Marse  Ed  nebber  move  er  muscle  ner  bat  er  eye. 
He  jes'  sot  dar  silen'  es  death  in  er  country  chu'ch  yard,  an' 
still  es  de  bronze  angel  on  er  deacon's  tomb.  He  look  lak 
de  speerit  ob  '76  on  wheels  an'  termined  es  er  ole  maid  when 
she  make  up  her  min'  ter  marry  de  Mefodis'  preacher  wid 
ten  mudderless  chilluns.  An'  fo'  goodness,  Boss,  I  cudden' 
see  Robert  J.  'tall!  All  I  seed  was  'is  shadder  on  de  white 
washed  fence  beyond,  an'  dat  scudded  erlong  lak  a  March 
cloud  flyin'  ercrost  de  sun's  face.  At  de  fus'  quarter  I  heurd 
sumpin'  sorter  shettin'  wid  er  snap,  bang,  an'  I  looked  up  in 
some  pigeon-holes  in  de  timer's  stan',  an'  dar  wus  hung  out 
30  3-4,  an'  eb'rybody  was  hollerin'  an — an'  Robert  J.  still  er 
flyin'! 

"  'Great  scotts!  how  he  climbs  dat  hill,'  sed  er  man  by  me. 
De  onliest  hill  I  seed  wus  er  hill  erbout  fo'  mile  erway,  on 
de  yudder  side  de  Warbash  ribber,  an'  I  look  ober  dar  'spect'- 
in'  ter  see  Robert  J.  gwine  up  dar,  sulky  an'  all,  fur  I  could 
er  b'lieved  eny  thing  'bout  'im  now  arter  seein'  'im  go  dat 
fus'  quartah,  but  I  didn't  see  no  Robert  J.  ober  dar,  an'  I  say 
ter  de  man: 

"  'Mistah,  what  hill  dat  you  talkin'  'bout?'  an'  he  stare  at 
me  mad-lak,  an'  say: 


I96  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

"  'Ef  yer  don't  stop  trompin'  on  my  toes  an'  quit  breath- 
in'  yo'  bref  in  my  face,  I'll  make  er  dead  nigger  outen  yer!' 

"I  seed  dat  man  wasn't  social  'tall,  an'  I  let  'im  erlone. 
But  I  heurd  ernudder  snap  bang  in  de  pigeon-holes,  an'  I 
look  ergin  an'  dar  wus  hung  out  i  :oo  3-4,  an'  de  folks  all 
stan'in'  on  deir  haids  an'  hollerin' — an'  Robert  J.  still  erflyin'! 

"Roun'  de  third  quarter  he  cum,  wid  de  runner  an'  'im 
nose  an'  nose,  lak  er  team,  an'  yer  couldn'  tell  which  wus 
which  'cept  de  runner's  haid  kep'  bobbin'  up  an'  down  an'  'is 
driver  er  whippin'  an'  er  slashin'  while  Robert  J.'s  nose  neb- 
ber  moved  up  ner  down  er  inch,  an'  Marse  Ed  settin'  dar  lak 
er  statoo  ov  er  Greek  god  on  er  charyut.  Snap!  bang!  1:30  1-4 
dey  hung  out,  an'  den  sech  er  shout  es  dey  sent  up — an'  Rob 
ert  J.  still  erflyin'! 

"Dey  didn'  wanter  stop  hollerin',  an'  de  boss  man  got 
up  an'  beg  'em  an'  beg  'em  an'  wave  hees  han's,  an'  shouted 
fer  quiet,  an'  de  folks  in  de  fus'  row  dey  all  stan'  up  an'  look 
back  at  dem  behin'  an'  say  sh-h-h!  sh-h-h-h!  sh-h-h-h-h!  an' 
de  gran'  stan'  stop  so  still  you  could'er  heurd  er  pin  drap 
in  de  middle  ob  de  naixt  century — an'  Robert  J.  still  er 
flyin'! 

"He  turn  de  cohner.  De  angels  played  on  er  harp 
ob  er  thousan'  strings  in  my  years,  an'  I  thought 
I  wus  in  ernudder  worl'!  I  fohgot  whar  I  wus. 
'Feared  lak  'twus  me  in  de  sulky,  an'  I  grab  er  pair  er  spike 
coat-tails  b'longin'  to  er  dude  in  front  ob  me,  fur  reins,  an' 
wid  bof  eyes  on  dat  flyin'  hoss  I  commenced  ter  cluck  myse'f. 
De  win'  roared  in  my  years  es  I  flew  erlong;  de  fence  'roun' 
de  track  look  lak  er  white-washed  string  hung  in  de  air,  an' 
de  track  itsef  'peared  ter  be  er  toboggan  slide  down  de  highes' 
peak  ob  de  Alps,  an'  de  sulky  wus  gwine  down  et,  pulled  by 
flyin'  eagles  an'  mounting  deers!  'Twas  sweeter'n  de  angels 
in  dair  glory!  Bipperty-bip!  bipperty-bip!  bipperty-bip! 
cum  dat  yer  runner!  Click-klock!  click-klock!  click- 
klock  cum  dat  sweet  'ittle  pacer.  Snap,  bang!  2:01  1-2  went 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  197 

de  timer's  box,  an'  I  turn  two  summersets,    shouted    'glory 

hallyluja!'  busted  inter  ten  thousan'  pieces,  an'  went  home 

ter  glory! 

"When  I  cum  to  I  wus  huggin'  er  trottin'-bred  nigger 

frum  Indiana,  an'  singin'  : 

Hark  frum  de  tomb,  yer  trottin'  coon  — 
We've  sot  yer  er  record  yer  won't  bust  soon!" 


HAL  POINTER  AT  BUFFALO. 
(When  he  won  the  $10,000  purse.) 

THEY  score  for  the  word,  teeth  clinched  on  the  steel  bit, 
With  muscles  like  fagots,  and  nostrils  afire, 
Each  ready  to  race  for  a  kiss  or  a  kingdom 

Their  thundering  sulkies  flash  under  the  wire. 
"Go!"  and  they're  gone  —  while  the  gleaming  silk  jackets 

Flash  out  from  the  hurricane  cloud  on  the  marge, 
Speeding  away  through  the  dust  that  hangs  o'er  them 
Like  pennons  that  close  in  a  cavalry  charge. 

Around  the  first  turn  —  what  a  picture  of  fleetness! 

A  thrice  double  team  breast  to  breast  in  a  line, 
With  thin,  darting  ears  laid  back  as  they  listen 

For  each  cheering  word  from  their  reinsmen  behind. 
With  strides  like  the  strokes  of  a  frictionless  piston, 

And  breath  like  the  breath  of  the  steam  just  beneath, 
They  go  —  with  the  courage  of  Greek  at  the  Persian 

With  joy  like  the  Victor's  at  sight  of  the  wreath. 

But  see!  one  is  up  —  his  bold  stride  has  been  broken, 
How  he  tosses  his  foam-fleck'd  mane  to  and  fro, 

So  eager  to  go  —  so  impatient  of  curbing  — 
Did  e'er  battling  human  more  eagerness  show? 


198  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Away  sped  the  others!  —  with  horse  as  with  human 
The  hindmost  must  fret  along  Fate's  dusty  route, 

While  the  foremost  speeds  on  to  the  goal  and  the  music, 
To  Beauty's  bright  glance  and  the  multitude's  shout. 

Look!  Look!  'tis  a  drive  full  fast  now  and  furious, 

They're  nearing  the  wire  and  the  red  flag  is  out, 
Neck  to  neck,  heart  to  heart,  stride  for  stride  they  thunder 

Ah,  woe  to  the  faint  heart  that  dares  now  to  doubt! 
But  see!  from  the  bunch  comes,  keen  as  an  arrow, 

With  courage  of  demon  and  speed  well  in  hand  — 
"Hal  Pointer!     Hal  Pointer!!"  the  heavens  re-echo, 

The  rest  —  it  is  lost  in  the  roar  from  the  stand. 


THE  TRACK  AROUND  THE  STOVE. 

YOU  may  talk  about  your  kite-shaped  and  your  regulation 
tracks, 

With  their  soil  made  by  nature  for  the  feet  of  flying  cracks; 
You  may  brag  about  their  home  stretch  and  their  undulating 

sway, 

And  swear  that  every  single  one  is  down  hill  all  the  way; 
But  the  fastest  track  that  mortal  man  in  fancy  ever  wove 
Is  in  the  village  grocery,  and  it  runs  around  the  stove. 

When  bleak  old  Boreas  on  his  steed  comes  charging  from  the 

North, 

And  other  tracks  are  closed  up  as  he  stalks  in  glory  forth, 
'Tis  then  the  track  around  the  stove  is  ready  for  the  fray 
And  the  breaking  of  the  records  may  be  heard  a  mile  away; 
For  the  magic  of  this  matchless  track  is  like  Aladdin's  grove, 
And  the  horse  just  flies  that  hits  it  —  this  track  around  the 

stove. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  199 

No  need  of  any  sulky  —  nay,  the  horse  need  not  appear  — 
Just  give  the  driver  two  good  drinks  and  see  the  way  is  clear. 
Every  swipe  around  the  village  that  has  rubbed  a  horse's 

shanks 
Just  turns  his  steeds  of  fancy  loose  and  wipes  out  Nancy 

Hanks; 
Every   plow-boy   who   with   cotton   lines   and    Balaam's   ass 

e'er  strove 
Is  then  and  there  a  Goldsmith  —  on  this  track  around  the 

stove. 

But,  alas!  when  springtime  cometh,  with  the  flow'ry  breath 

of  May, 

These  record  breakers  all  go  wrong  —  and  go  to  hauling  hay  — 
And  the  Pointers  and  the  Alixes,  of  whom  this  tale  is  told, 
Just  bid  the  world  a  fond  good-bye  and  crawl  into  their  hole! 
Then  the  Goldsmiths  go  to  plowing,  and  the  Geers  the  world 

to  rove, 
And  the  rats  up  in  the  attic  run  this  track  around  the  stove. 


HAL   POINTER   ON   MEMORIAL   DAY. 

1  NOTICED  that  our  old  friend,  Hal  Pointer,  turned  out 
on  Decoration  Day  at  Tyrone,  Pa.,  and  honored  the 
occasion  by  pacing  the  half-mile  track  in  2:16%,  last  half  in 
1:09.  I  judge  from  the  report  that  this  was  done  in  honor  of 
the  opening  day  of  the  association;  but  chiefly  in  honor  of 
the  day  itself  —  the  Memorial  Day  of  the  brave  Union  dead. 

It  is  peculiarly  fitting  that  Hal  Pointer  should  do  this, 
for  around  the  home  of  his  cradle  flashed  the  hottest  fires 
of  the  Civil  War,  and  the  land  that  gave  him  being  had  the 
temper  of  its  heart  of  steel  tried  in  the  whitest  heat  of  the 
conflict.  The  air  he  first  breathed  was  the  same  that  echoed  to 
the  shot  and  shout  of  Franklin;  the  water  he  first  drank  was 


200  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

tributary  to  that  which  ran  in  red  currents  between  the  banks 
of  the  "bloody  Harpeth;"  while  the  very  grass  he  first 
nibbled  was  made  luxuriant  by  the  blood  of  the  blue  and 
the  gray.  The  same  element  of  sun  and  soil  that  made  the 
mortal  parts  of  those  that  bared  their  bosoms  to  the  lance 
of  war,  made  him;  and  the  indomitable  spirit  of  his  near 
ancestors  was  that  which  carried  Forrest  and  Wheeler  on 
their  reckless  raids.  If  there  was  ever  a  horse  which  comes 
near  representing  the  unflinching  spirit  of  the  old  South, 
that  horse  is  Hal  Pointer;  and  it  is  peculiarly  appropriate,  to 
my  mind,  that  he  should  turn  out  on  Memorial  Day  and  lay, 
in  the  twilight  of  his  life,  the  tribute  wreaths  of  his  matchless 
courage  and  speed  on  the  grave  of  a  brave  and  honored 
enemy. 

And  why  not?  What  is  Prejudice  that  it  should  claim 
authority  to  teach  me  to  despise  the  graves  of  those  who 
differed  from  me  in  life — me,  who  must  so  soon  lie  down 
to  measure  graves  with  mine  enemy?  What  is  Hatred  that 
I  should  allow  it  to  put  a  blind  bridle  on  me  and  ride  me 
to  the  devil?  What  is  Ignorance  that  it  should  ask  me  to 
sit  under  the  shadow  of  its  wing  and  imagine  I  am  a  seer  in 
the  lighted  halls  of  Wisdom?  God  made  me  free  and  by 
God's  help  none  of  these  shall  make  me  his  slave. 

The  man  in  the  North  who  will  hate,  after  all  these 
years,  his  brave  brother  in  the  South,  is  both  a  fool  and  a 
coward;  and  the  man  in  the  South  who  has  not  learned  to 
forgive  and  forget,  who  would  not  decorate  the  grave  of  a 
brave  enemy,  is  twin  brother  to  him  at  the  North.  Perhaps 
the  war  was  a  bloody  blessing.  God  alone  knows  why  it 
should  have  been.  But  out  of  it  has  come  a  cemented  Union 
which,  God  grant,  will  live  forever.  Does  the  England  of 
to-day  think  any  less  of  the  brave  Scotch  whose  inde 
pendence  and  courage  so  often  defied  them  around  the  ban 
ners  of  Wallace  and  Bruce,  or  the  Irish  "who  have  fought 
successfully  the  battles  of  all  the  world  save  their  own?"  If 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  2OI 

she  does,  she  must  first  erase  from  her  history  the  glorious 
achievements  of  Blenheim,  Trafalgar  and  Waterloo. 

I  shall  not  have  lived  in  vain  if  I  can  teach  one  simple 
lesson  to  the  North  and  one  equally  as  simple  to  the  South. 
That  lesson  is  quickly  told:  "Be  charitable;  for  your  enemy 
died  believing  he  was  right  and  fighting  for  the  identical 
principle  involved  in  Bunker  Hill  and  Yorktown."  For, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  principle  involved  was  identical, 
differing  only  in  the  manner  of  its  application. 

When  I  hear  the  plaudit  of  a  gun  each  morning  and  look 
out  of  my  library  window  to  see  Old  Glory  flutter  up  to 
his  flag  staff  away  above  the  tall  trees  of  the  arsenal,  to 
catch  the  first  kiss  from  the  only  light  that  is  his  equal,  my 
heart  swells  with  love  and  joy  at  his  greatness  and  power. 
I  love  it  because  it  stands  for  equal  rights  and  equal  chance 
for  all  men;  because  it  has  grown  so  great  in  principle  and 
so  strong  in  might  that  it  can  say  to  the  most  arrogant  of 
tyrants:  "Give  your  oppressed  people  the  rights  of  civilized 
beings,"  and  he  gives  them;  or  to  the  most  powerful:  "Tread 
not  on  the  toes  of  your  helpless  little  neighbor,"  and  she 
treads  not.  I  love  it  for  all  these,  but  chiefly  because  it  is 
the  flag  of  my  own  country,  the  making  of  which  those  of  my 
own  blood  and  clime  lent  no  unwilling  hands. 

And  yet  when  I  look  on  my  mantel  and  see  the  little 
faded  flag  there, 

"Representing  nothing  on  God's  earth  now 
And  naught  in  the  waters  below  it," 

nothing  except  the  blood  of  a  valorous  dead  and  the  honesty 
of  an  unflinching  devotion  to  principle  (as  if  these  could  be 
nothing)  I  cannot,  to  save  my  life,  help  shedding  tears. 

And  so  I  live — 'twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear,  as  Byron  hath 
it — knowing  that  God  is  good  and  just,  and  will  judge  us 
all,  not  by  our  failures  or  our  successes,  but  by  the  truthful 
ness  and  honesty  of  our  purpose. 


202  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

So  pace  on,  old  Pointer,  and  in  the  sunset  of  your  life 
do  greater  deeds  of  loving  kindness  than  you  ever  did  while 
vanquishing  your  enemies  in  the  hey-day  of  your  fame  — 

"Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  day, 
Love  and  tears  for  the  blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  gray." 


THE  LILY  OF  FORT  CUSTER. 

AND  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  story,  lad,  of  the  old 
horse,  Tennessee, 

The  stqjit  red  roan  I  rode  alone  on  the  track  of  that 

snake  Pawnee, 
The  meanest  Indian  that  ever  bit  dirt,  and  I  hope  he  is  roast 

ing  to-day, 
For  I  ain't  had  a  mount  that  was  any  account  since  —   What 

did  you  say? 
Go  on  with   the   story?     Why,   that's  what  I  am,  and   I'm 

going  to  tell  it  my  way! 
A  Hal  he  was  —  the  Indian,  you  ask?    Young  man,  if  I  had 

my  gun 
You'd  go  to  the   spirit  land  yourself  before  this   here  tale 

was  done. 
Three  stout  crosses  of  running  blood  —  old  Traveler,  Titno- 

leon,  Empire  — 
A  Hal   on   that!     Aye,   there's  the  horse  the  devil   himself 

can't  tire, 

Molded  as  trim  as  a  Catling  gun  and  full  to  the  brim  of  its 
fire. 

I  raised  him  from  a  colt  myself.     My  father  gave  him  to  mi 
When  I  rode  West  with  Ouster's  men  of  the  Seventh  Cavalry, 


FROM    TENNESSEE  203 

Away  to  the  shade  and  the  shadow-land,  where  the  Rockies 

prop  the  sky, 
And  the  bison  herd,  like  a  powder-brown  bird,  afar  on  the 

trail  doth  fly — 
But  we  never  flickered  in  all  that  ride,   neither  Tennessee 

nor  I. 

And  gaits?    There  wasn't  a  horse  in  camp  could  go  all  the 

gaits  like  him — 
Canter  and  pace  and  single-foot  and  fox-trot  smooth   and 

trim. 
He  led  the  wing  when  the  bugler  would  sing  "Boots  and 

Saddles !" — Away ! 
From  sun  to  sun  there  was  never  a  run  that  he  wasn't  in  it 

to  stay — 
The  showiest  horse  on  dress  parade,  the  gamest  in  the  fray. 

And  the  Rockies!     O,  the  Rockies,  lad!     God  made  'em  to 

teach  us  how 
To  look  from  earth  to  Grandeur's  birth — to  His  own  great 

beetling  brow. 
I  never  had  seen  a  mountain,  lad!    How  they  thrilled!    How 

they  loomed  on  me! 

Granite  and  cloud  wrapped  in  a  shroud  of  snow  eternally, 
So  different  from  the  sweet  green  hills  of  dear  old  Tennessee. 

Homesick  I  grew,  I  know  not  why,  when  we  camped  in  the 

far  Sioux  land; 
Things  were  so  solemn  and  silent  there — silent  and  solemn 

and  grand — 
And  I  longed  again  to  see  the  plain  and  the  rolling  waves 

of  wheat, 
And  the  low,  soft  music  of  the  grain  in  the  June  days  rustling 

sweet, 


204  SONGS   AND    STORIES 

And  the  gay  notes  of  the  mocking  bird,  where  the  Duck  and 
the  Bigby  meet. 

But  out  at  the  Fort  was  a  maiden, 

A  maiden  fair  to  see, 
And  I  fell  dead  in  love  with  her, 

And  she — with  Tennessee, 
For  she  learned  to  ride  upon  him, 

And  her  gallop  across  the  plain 
Would  make  you  think  Athene  had  come 

To  break  the  winged  horse  again. 

And  she  was  the  Captain's  daughter, 

In  rank  above  me  far 
As  above  the  fire-fly  in  the  grass 

Beams  out  the  evening  star. 
But  Love — he  smiles  at  epaulets 

As  he  laughs  at  bolts  and  bar. 

With  eyes  like  the  skies  when  the  shower  is  over, 
And  the  rain  drops  are  soothing  the  cheeks  of  the  clover- 
Dear  drops  of  sympathy  all  too  soon  over! 

And  a  face  like  a  vase  with  two  rose-buds  in  it, 

Rosebuds  of  cheeks,  to  change  in  a  minute 

To  the  puckered-up  throat  of  a  sweet-singing  linnet. 

And  curls  like  the  whirls  of  the  clouds,  when  the  Day-king 

Stops  his  bold  ride  to  the  West,  ere  making 

His  bed  in  their  bank  and  his  night-goblet  taking. 

And  lips  like  the  dew-wine  he  sips  in  the  morning 
(Mistaking  her  eyes  for  the  day's  in  its  dawning), 
Mistaking  her  eyes  and  sweet  Eos'  scorning. 


FROM    TENNESSEE  205 

And  her  soul!    'Twas  the  goal  of  the  Angels  and  Graces, 
Seen  in  their  face  as  they  play  in  their  races — 
The  purest  of  souls  in  the  purest  of  places. 

And  I? 

Followed  no  flag  but  the  blue  of  her  bonnet. 
And  I  marched  and  I  charged  by  the  white  streamers  on  it. 
And  yet  when  she  turned  her  blue  batteries  on  me 
Brought  up  her  reserve  to  ride  o'er  and  scorn  me, 
1  was  wretched,  and  sorry  my  mother  had  borne  me. 
And  surrendered,  I  did,  though  my  heart  was  enraptured-- 
A  prisoner,  yet  gloried  by  her  to  be  captured. 

And  she? 

When  she  was  certain  I'd  never  be  free 
Gave  me  her  pity  and  loved — Tennessee. 

Heydey!     And  I  say 

But  that  is  the  way — 
Love  is  a  tyrant  that  never  grows  old. 

Bonnet  and  curl — 

Lord,  all  my  world 
Got  under  that  sheen  of  gold. 

Heydey!    Still  I  say 

If  naught's  in  the  way 
What  glory  in  battling  for  beauty  to  love  us? 

Love  is  a  star, 

To  be  worshipped  afar, 
And,  like  it,  should  be  above  us. 

Heydey!     Yet  I  say 

There's  many  a  way 
That  love  finds  his  own,  though  his  own  be  not  waiting. 

And  lips  may  be  mute, 

And  eyes  may  refute, 
But  hearts  made  to  mate  find  a  way  for  the  mating. 


2o6  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

In  our  long  ride  up  from  the  valley 

A  Pawnee  chief  we  found — 
Old  Bone-in-the-Face  they  called  him  then, 

But  now — he  is  bone-in-the-ground. 
Starving  he  was  when  we  picked  him  up, 

And   racked   with   ague   and   pain, 
But  he  taught  us  a  lesson  we'll  never  forget, 

Which  I   don't  mind  telling  again — 
The  good  Indians  live  in  the  school  books,  lad, 

The  bad  ones  all  live  on  the  plain. 

The  coyote!     We  nursed   and   cured   him, 

And  then  he  turned  his  eyes 
To  the  Lily,  God  help  her!  and  when  she  rode 

From  the  Fort  'neath  the  sweet  June  skies 
To  pluck  the  flowers  that  grew  on  the  plain 

(A  pony  she  rode  that  day) 
The   Pawnee  stole  the   Colonel's  horse 

And  slipped,  with  a  Sioux  away. 
Away  on  the  track  of  the   Lily, 

Like  wolves  on  the  trail  of  a  fawn, 
Two  hours  before  a  soul  in  camp 

Knew  the  treacherous  dogs  were   gone — 
Two  hours  before  alarm's  shrill  voice 

Waked  the  echoing  sentry's  horn! 

Away  on  the  track  of  the  Lily,  and  they  lassoed  her  pony 

and  rode 
With  her  bound  in  the  saddle  and  helpless,  to  Sitting  Bull's 

band  at  the  ford — 
To  Sitting  Bull's  tent!  for  a  life  that  was  worse  than  living 

in  hell's  own  abode. 

The  alarm  gun  was  sounded,  we  rushed  through  the  gate — 
the  Captain,  the  Corporal,  and  I — 


FROM    TENNESSEE  307 

The  moon  had  just  risen,  a  trifle  too  late  to  see  the  sun 
sink  in  the  sky. 

The  Captain  looked  black  as  the  charger  he  rode,  the  Cor 
poral  sat  grim  on  his  gray, 

While  I? — just  patted  old  Tennessee's  neck  and  he  struck 
that  long  gallop — to  stay. 

We   struck  the   trail  quickly;    'twas   plain   as   could  be,  the 

pony's  flat  track  in  the  sand. 
And  then  it  was  headed  as  straight  as  a  bee  to  the  North,  for 

the  Sioux's  bloody  band. 
A  mile  further  on  it  turned  slight  to  the  right — the  Captain 

sprang  quick  to  the  ground, 
For  there  in  the  path  was  a  sun-bonnet  bright — he  kissed  it, 

then  turning  around 

We  saw  the  tears  glitter  and  felt  kind  o'  moist  around  our 

own  hardened  eyes, 
Then    stood   with   bowed  heads   for  a   moment  while    each 

breathed  a  silent  prayer  up  to  the  skies. 
'Twas  the  work  of  a  moment  to  tighten  our  girths,  cut  loose 

the  throat-latch  and  curb-chain, 
Then  strike  for  the  ford — fifty  good  miles  away  across  the 

wide  stretch  of  the  plain. 

"To  the  ford!"  cried  the  father,  and  his  rowel  shot  swift  as  a 

star  in  the  flank  of  his  black. 
"To  the  ford!  There  is  no  other  place  they  can  cross.  To  the 

ford!  See  the  course  of  the  track! 
Two  hours  the  start!    Great  God  give  us  speed,"  as  the  black 

went  away  like  the  wind. 
"Too  fast!"  I  called  out,  but  he  never  did  heed:  already  he'd 

left  us  behind. 

"Now,  Corporal,"  I  said,  "we  will  test  your  grey's  grit;  'tis 
a  ride  that  the  stoutest  might  shun." 


208  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

And  I  braced  myself  firm,  held  steady  the  bit,  with  Tennessee 

struggling  to  run, 
But  I  gave  not  his  head,  for  well  did  I  know  not  a  horse  in 

the  world  could  stand 
Fifty  miles  of  a  race  at  a  heart-killing  pace  in  the  alkali  dust 

of  that  land. 

Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on, 

Out  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 
No  word  did  we  speak,  no  sound  did  we  heed 
But  the  low,  muffled  beat  of  our  galloping  steed. 
The  grey,  circling  dust  rose  in  pillars  and  spread 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  cloud  in  the  moonlight  o'erhead; 
And  the  sage-bush  was  plated  with  white  in  the  light 
As  we  raced,  like  a  running  team,  into  the  night. 

Beyond  us,  the  peak  of  a  towering  cone, 
Fifty  good  miles  away,  on  the  broad  Yellowstone, 
Was  our  snow-covered  goal,  in  the  moon-blazoned  air, 
And  we  headed  full  straight  for  the  ford  that  was  there. 
Our  horses  pulled  hard  on  the  bit,  for  the  dash 
Was  a  frolic  to  them  in  the  hoof-beating  crash, 
And  the  quick,  playful  snort,  as  onward  we  glide, 
From  their  nostrils  keep  time  to  the  lengthening  stride. 
The  miles  spin  behind  us,  with  bound  upon  bound 
Two  shadows  fly  on  like  a  twin-headed  hound. 
My  roan  tossed  the  fleckings  of  foam  in  a  ring, 
As  an  eagle  the  snow  flake  that  lights  on  his  wing, 
And  with  nose  to  his  knees  and  his  ears  laid  back 
He  swept  a  clean  path  through  the  dust-covered  track, 
Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on — 
Ten  miles  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

But  onward  we  went,  head  lowered,  and  bent 
To  the  stride  like  an  arrow  from  ashen  bow  sent. 


FROM    TENNESSEE,  209 

My  horse  was  now  wet  to  the  mane  with  sweat 

And  the  grey,  where  the  dust  and  the  moisture  had  met, 

Was  white  as  the  palfrey  Godiva  rode  down 

Through  the  dead  silent  street  of  Coventry  town. 

His  breath  comes  shorter  and  quicker — a  wheeze, 

And  I  note  that  his  stride  is  not  true  at  the  knees. 

I  felt  of  my  roan,  brought  him  down  to  a  pace, 

For  the  speed  was  terriffic,  the  gait — 'twas  a  race! 

I  stood  in  my  stirrups  and  cut  loose  the  cord 

Of  the  cantle  strap — down  went  the  full  useless  load! 

I  threw  off  my  saber  and  cavalry  cloak, 

My  rain-coat  and  blanket,  and,  bending,  I  spoke: 

"Steady,  good  Tennessee!     Steady  and  true, 

There's  a  race  yet  ahead,  old  fellow,  for  you. 

Just  swing  this  long  gallop  for  ten  miles  or  more, 

We  are  frolicking  now,  but  we'll  show  them  before 

We  halt  in  the  shadow  of  yon  mount  by  the  flood 

The  never-die  spirit  of  Tennessee  blood." 

Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on — 
Twenty  miles  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

But  see!  now  he  pricks  up  his  ears  as  we  rush, 

And  shies  with  a  bound  to  the  right  from  the  brush. 

A  glance,  and  pitifully  struggling  with  pain 

The  Captain's  black  horse  is  stretched  out  on  the  plain 

And  I  see  as  I  pass,  with  a  pull  on  the  bit, 

The  scarlet  blood  gush  from  his  deep  nostril-pit. 

To  the  Corporal  I  said;  "Do  you  know  what  we  passed?" 

He  nodded — "I  knew  he  was  going  too  fast. 

The  black  was  dead  game,  but  too  fat  and  rank 

To  run  twenty  miles  with  a  steel  in  his  flank. 

Poor  fellow!    But  where  can  his  rider  now  be?" 

"Ahead,  and  on  foot — just  ahead,  do  you  see?" 

As  a  speck  in  the  distance,  a  spot  in  the  grey — 

Then  a  tall,  lithe  figure  plodding  away, 


210  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

He  stops  at  the  sound  of  our  galloping  hoof. 
We  draw  curb  a  moment  'neath  the  silvery  roof 
That  rolls  o'er  our  heads  as  our  steeds  made  a  launch, 
Planting  stiff  knees  in  sand,  thrown  back  on  their  haunch. 
"What  news?"      "Go  on,  and  check  not  your  rein," 
Said  the  father,  as  quickly  he  stooped  on  the  plain. 
Then  rising — "From  the  track  we're  an  hour  behind. 
For  the  love  of  your  homes  speed  on  like  the  wind! 
But  halt!     Corporal,  give  me  that  good  gallant  grey"- 
A  moment,  and  then  we  were  speeding  away — 
Speeding  away  through  the  low,  creeping  light, 
Through  the  shade  and  the  shadow,  the  blare  and  the  blight 
Of  the  heat  wave  that  clung  to  the  breath  of  the  night — 
Speeding  away  through  the  leg-wearying  sand, 
Through  the  hoof-stinging  flint  of  that  alkali  land 
With  steel  in  our  hearts  and  steel  in  our  hand, 
Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on — 
Thirty  miles  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

Not  a  word:  as  we  rushed  adown  a  long  slope 
We  bounded  as  free  as  the  wild  antelope. 
A  coyote  howls  out  from  a  neighboring  hill, 
An  owl  hoots  answer,  and  then  all  is  still. 
A  rise  in  the  range  of  our  trail  to  the  right 
And  our  cloud-propping  goal  flashes  bold  on  our  sight, 
"Thank  God!"  cries  the  Captain,  "their  powers  now  fail. 
They  have  come  to  a  trot — see  the  tracks  in  the  trail!" 
And  crazed  with  the  grief  that  a  father  can  feel 
He  sends  the  steel  home  with  a  desperate  heel. 
But  I  mark  the  short  breaths  of  the  grey  as  he  goes, 
And  his  staggering  gait  as  the  dust  upward  'rose. 
"Draw  your  rein!"  to  the  Captain  I  shouted  aloud; 
"Your  horse  will  choke  down  in  this  dust-stifling  cloud. 
We  have  come  many  miles  without  water  or  rest — 
Draw  rein  just  a  moment — "  Down  on  his  breast, 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  211 

With  a  sickening  wheeze  from  his  steam-heaving  chest, 
He  staggers — reels — heaves — and  over  he  sinks, 
While  the  blood  bubbles  up  from  its  carmiel  brinks. 
"Go  on,  Sergeant — on!"  as  he  leaps  to  be  free — 
"My  child  and  her  life  rest  with  old  Tennessee!" 
Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on — 
Alone  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

For  the  first  time  now  I  felt  nervous  with  dread, 

Even  Tennessee  galloped  less  bravely  ahead. 

Each  bush  seemed  an  Indian  as  big  as  a  horse, 

Each  shadow  the  ghost  of  another,  across 

Our  path  slipping  on  in  the  dim,  misty  light 

To  warn  those  ahead  to  be  ready  for  fight. 

I  spoke  to  brave  Tennessee,  stroked  his  wet  crest, 

Talked  of  the  home  where  we  both  used  to  rest — 

The  meadows,  where  shone  the  calm,  blue  sky  above, 

And  the  blue  grass  below  in  the  land  of  our  love — 

Of  the  old  mare,  perchance  nodding  now  in  her  stall, 

And  the  father  and  mother — ah!    dearest  of  all. 

And  I  smile  even  now  as  I  think  of  the  song 

I  sang  out  aloud  as  we  staggered  along; 

And  Tennessee  braced  himself  up  at  the  sound, 

For  I  felt  his  feet  strike  a  bit  steadier  the  ground, 

And  it  nerved  even  me — not  a  moment  too  soon, 

For  there,  standing  there  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 

Almost  in  our  pathway — how  quickly  it  rose ! 

Then, — the  twang  of  a  bow  under  Tennessee's  nose, 

Just  as  the  horse  on  his  haunches  arose, 

And  the  deadly  barbed  arrow,  intended  for  me, 

With  a  rattlesnake  hiss  struck  brave  Tennessee 

Just  under  the  throat,  near  the  big  throbbing  vein, 

And  came  out  above,  in  his  sweat-covered  mane. 

But  he  drew  not  another,  for  quick  through  his  head 

My  Colt  sent  a  cone  of  government  lead — 


212  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

And  Uncle  Sam's  darling  in  the  moonlight  lay  dead! 

A  moment's  convulsion — on  his  knees  sank  my  roan — 

Down!  and  my  heart  sank,  too,  with  his  groan, 

But,  struggling  he  'rose  with  the  staggering  pain 

As  I  spoke,  and  came  to  his  senses  again, 

Then  plunged — reeled — plunged — Great  God,  would  he  fall 

With  that  flint  in  his  throat?    In  vain  was  my  call! 

How  I  pitied  him,  struggling,  the  will  'gainst  the  flesh! 

But  I  thought  of  the  Lily  and  urged  him  afresh, 

And  I  plunged  both  my  spurs  in  his  death-shaking  sides 

(He  never  had  felt  them  before  in  his  rides), 

For  he  bounded  away  with  the  bit  in  his  teeth 

And  the  frenzy  of  death  in  his  hoof  beats  beneath. 

And  he  ran  as  if  he  knew  his  last  race  was  run — 

Was  there  ever  a  grander  one  under  the  sun? 

A  spurt  on  the  trail,  a  maiden's  low  cry, 

Half  strangled — and  then  we  were  thundering  by. 

Useless  my  pistol!     I  threw  it  away, 

Too  close  was  the  Lily — too  deadly  the  fray! 

A  spring  and  a  grapple!        A  hand  to  hand  strife — 

A  blow — here's  the  scar  from  his  murderous  knife — 

The  next  and  my  grandfather's  *King  Mountain  made 

A  path  through  his  heart  to  his  left  shoulder  blade. 

A  maid  on  the  sand — and  she  held  in  her  lap 

Not  my  head — but  that  of  a  far  nobler  chap. 

A  maid  on  the  sand — and  her  tears  fall  free 

On  the  quivering  muzzle  of  brave  Tennessee, 

While  his  poor,  pleading  eyes  seemed  to  linger  above 

To  tell  her  he  galloped  that  gallop  for  love. 

That's  all!    When  I  waked  from  a  two  hours'  swoon 
(Where  I  dreamed  a  sweet  Lily  grew  by  a  lagoon 
And  kissed  me  and  bound  with  her  leaflets  my  wound) 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 

The  Captain  was  there  with  fifty  picked  men, 
And  they  swore  such  a  ride  they  would  ne'er  see  again! 
And  the  Captain  broke  down,  and  the  Lily  and  me, 
And  we  all  went  to  camp — all  but  old  Tennessee. 
He  sleeps  by  the  shore 

Where  the  swift  waters  roar, 
The  mountain  his  monument 

Till  time  is  no  more, 
And  beneath — this  is  carved  where  a  boulder  hangs  o'er: 

HERE  LIES  TENNESSEE, 

of  the 
SEVENTH  CAVALRY. 

the 
same  was  a  horse, 

yet 

HE  GALLOPED  ACROSS 
The  Plain 
To  Fame. 
Of  Three,  He  Alone 

had 
The  Blood  and  the  Bone 

TO  RUN 

Fifty  Miles  to  the  Yellowstone. 
To  Save  a  Life  He  Gave  His  Own. 

And  now  I  have  told  you  the  story,  lad, 
Except — well,  I  soon  came  home, 

For  I  had  no  mount  that  was  any  account 
And  I  had  no  heart  to  roam. 

But  after  a  while  I  did  go  back  and 

I  brought  her  home  with  me — 
The  Lily  of  Fort  Custer — and  she  blooms  in  Tennessee. 


213 


*A  short,  heavy  knife  made  from  the  sword  of  his  grand- 


2i4  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

sire  used  at  the  battle  of  King's  Mountain.     The  writer  has 
often  seen  it. 

H-J-H 
TRUTH  IN  BEAUTY. 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty" — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

— Keats — Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn. 

(To  the  gifted  organist,  Mrs.  William  A.  King,  of  Marion, 
Ala.) 

O  OOTHED  is  my  spirit  when  you  touch  the  keys, 
O         And,  like  a  cloud,  my  soul  floats  far  away; 
My  throbbing  fancies  throng  as  dreaming  bees 

To  suck  the  flowers  that  spring  up  when  you  play — 
O,  that  I  thus  at  last  might  sip  and  pass  'mid  sweets  away! 

Whence  comes  such  rapturous  pain  from  simple  bars, 

Such  tender-hurting,  joy-bewidow'd  sweet? 
Such  pouring  glory — cataract  of  stars — 

Bubbles  of  beauty,  bursting  at  my  feet, 

Or  floating  into  dreamland  streams  where  Fay  and  Fancy 
meet? 

The  rain-bow  gleams  along  that  splendid  arch 

Where  from  your  fingers  fall  the  quiv'ring  drops. 
And  now,  sunset;  and  now  the  misty  march 

Of  timbrel-twinkling  planets,  o'er  the  tops 
Of  organ-chords,  aeolian-peaked,  with  star-emblazoned  stops. 

Above  the  earth,  above  the  wheeling  flight 

Of  mute,  yet  clearest  pealing  minstrelsy — 

One  glimpse  of  that  which  made  creation  bright, 
One  glimpse  of  first  love's  sun  of  ecstasy — 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  215 

Then  down  to  earth  where  musick'd  streams  purl  with  peb 
bled  symphony. 
O,  thus  to  live  —  thus  ever,  ever  live, 

Wedded  to  Art,  with  handmaid  Hope  at  side, 
Crushing  her  lips  with  lips  that  dare  to  give 

The  winter  tempest  for  the  summer  tide  — 
For  sweetest  of  all  weddings  yet  is  that  where  Art  is  bride. 

O,  thus  to  love,  forever,  ever  love, 

Changeless  in  beauty  and  star-lived  in  grace. 
To  hear  but  the  rustle  of  her  robes  above  — 

To  catch  the  star-beams  from  her  fountained  face  — 
For  dearer  is  Art's  finger-kiss  than  Passion's  whole  embrace! 

O  Faith,  O  Hope  —  the  poet  and  his  sky  — 

O  Joy,  O  Death  —  the  bondman  and  the  freed  — 
O  Love,  you,  too,  must  bow  beneath  that  eye 

Where  naught  of  earth,  or  earthy,  hath  a  breed  — 
For  infant  Truth  a  greater  hero  is  than  gray-haired  Deed. 

Truth  which  comes  in  Beauty,  as  to-night 

Comes  this  sweet  Truth  in  simple  harmony  — 

Calming  the  quick  waves  of  my  soul's  affright, 

And  from  the  depths  of  an  unsounded  sea, 

Starting  this  broken  wave  above  a  sea  of  melody. 


UNDER  THE  PINES. 

T  T  NDER  the  pines  with  her  hair  in  a  tangle, 

LJ      The  skies  in  her  eyes  and  the  stars  beaming  out, 

One  rosy  hand  clasping  the  green  boughs  above  her, 

One  daintily  tossing  the  flowers  about, 
The  Graces  peep  out  from  the  depths  of  her  dimples, 

The  Naiads  are  born  where  her  eye-glances  stray  — 


2l6  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Under  the  pines,  though  the  long  years  have  vanished, 
Under  the  pines  she  is  standing  to-day! 

Under  the  pines!  —  ah,  forever  and  ever 

The   Nymphs  build  their  booths  and  the   Naiads  their 

cave, 
And  there  'neath  the  bowers  she  is  tossing  her  flowers  — 

For  Time  cannot  take  back  the  picture  he  gave! 
O,  life  with  your  strife,  O,  death  with  your  darkness, 

Ye  have  taken  the  tinsel  and  left  me  the  gold! 
For  deep  in  my  heart  where  the  evergreens  hide  her, 

Still  tossing  her  flowers  she  stands  as  of  old. 


THE  TENNESSEEAN  TO  THE  FLAG. 

(A   poem   read   at   the    opening   of   the    United    States 
arsenal  at  Columbia,  Tenn.) 

WE  followed  you  first  in  the  days  of  old, 
For  you  stood  for  the  rights  of  men, 
And  our  pioneer  soldiers  followed  your  fold  — 

For  they  fought  for  the  Union  then; 
They  held  you  aloft  in  the  fiery  flame, 

'Mid  the  shriek  of  the  British  shell, 
And  planted  you  on  the  heights  of  fame  — 
That  flag  they  loved  so  well! 

We  followed  you  first  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  our  Jackson  went  to  the  fray, 
And  the  Tennessee  soldiers  lay  in  the  cold 

Of  that  long,  dread  winter  day. 
They  lay  in  the  cold,  but  you  floated  o'er, 

And  the  silence  was  deep  as  the  grave 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 

Till  their  long-barreled  rifles  spoke  with  a  roar 
For  the  flag  they  fought  to  save. 

We  followed  you  first  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  our  Polk  roused  the  Mexican  ire, 
And  we  gathered  an  empire  into  the  fold 

To  warm  it  with  Liberty's  fire. 
'Twas  our  own  gallant  Campbell  who  led  the  band, 

The  first  o'er  the  Mexican  height, 
And  yon  flag  of  our  Union  went  in  his  hand 

Through  the  red-hot  fire  of  the  fight. 

We've  followed  you  oft  in  the  days  of  old — 

And  we'll  follow  you  oft  again ! 
Shall  the  pulse  of  the  son  grow  sluggish  and  cold 

Where  the  sire's  blood  flowed  like  the  rain? 
Shall  the  deeds  of  the  past,  by  Error  bewail'd, 

Be  lost  in  the  passion's  dark  flow, 
And  the  flag  of  our  country  by  brothers  be  trailed 

When  it  never  has  trailed  to  the  foe? 

No!    We'll  follow  you  now,  proud  flag  of  the  free, 

Should  the  foe  with  his  banners  e'er  come — 
No  need  for  a  bugle  to  call  us  to  thee, 

Our  hearts  make  the  beat  of  our  drum! 
With  the  spirit  of  Jackson  to  guide  from  above, 

And  the  mem'ry  of  Crockett  to  aid  us, 
We'll  rally  once  more  to  the  banner  we  love — 

The  banner  our  forefathers  made  us! 

Then  wave,  proud  flag  of  our  Union, 
Wave  and  unroll  your  bright  bars; 
For  never  was  sunshine  brighter, 
And  never  the  sweet  air  lighter 
Than  that  now  circling  your  stars. 


218  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Then  float,  proud  flag  of  our  Union, 
Float  o'er  this  land  of  the  free; 
For  ne'er  was  love  any  truer, 
And  ne'er  was  sentiment  purer 
Than  the  love  of  our  people  for  thee. 


TO  BURNS. 

THERE  is  no  death  for  genius,  for  it  leaps, 
Fount-like,  from  source  to  limpid  depths  again. 
There  is  no  death  for  genius,  for  it  sleeps 

To  wake  refreshed  in  each  new  life's  sweet  pain. 
O,  Burns,  how  rich  and  sweet  thy  stream  of  song, 

Pouring  from  mountain  dale  and  hawthorn  glen, 
Bright  as  the  channel  where  Ayr  flashed  along, 

Deep  as  the  sea  beyond  Ben  Lomond's  ken. 
Bubbling,  it  bursts  out  like  thy  mountain  springs, 

Out  from  the  cool  depths  of  great  nature's  mart, 
Slaking  the  fevered  thirst  our  life  toil  brings, 

Reflecting  all  the  star-domes  of  our  heart. 
Here  at  thy  fount,  O,  let  me  drink  and  know 

That  God  still  reigns  and  man  is  king  below. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  PINES. 

FAR  away,   like   fairy  bugles,   when   the  shades   of   night 
are  on, 
Comes  again  the  memory-music  of  my  childhood  days  agone, 

agone, 
Comes  again  the  sheen  of  hillside  where  the  long-leaf  needles 

lay, 

And  the  spots  of  softened  sunshine  flecking  through  the  lat 
ticed  way, 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 


219 


Come  again  the  distant  echoes  of  my  playmates  from  their 

shrines, 

And  they  come  with  elfin  music,  with  the  music  of  the  pines, 
With  the  misty,  memory-music  of  the  band  among  the  pines. 

Once  again  their  half-heard  laughter  floats  from  out  the  past 

to  rise 

As  an  echo  from  hereafter  in  that  playground  'mid  the  skies; 
Once  again  the  resinous  odors  through  my  dreaming  senses 

spread 
As  the  frankincense  from  flowers  that  we  buried  with  our 

dead, 

And  I  stop  my  work  to  listen  to  the  bells  in  memory's  mines, 
Tinkling  on  the  sweling  hillside  to  the  music  of  the  pines, 
To  the  half-heard,  half-dreamt  music  of  the  band  among 

the  pines. 

Now  I  see  the  yellow  sunlight  sifted  through  the  sieve  of 

spears, 

And  I  hear  the  zephyr  lullabies  of  long  forgotten  years. 
How  the  band  above  me  thunders  as  the  swaying  tree  tops 

shake ! 

And  now  it  falls  as  calmly  sweet  as  starlight  on  a  lake. 
And  as  the  passing  pinions  sweep  above  in  lilting  lines, 
I  almost  see  the  angels  in  that  band  among  the  pines, 
See  the  angels  as  they  sing  and  swing  amid  the  swaying  pines. 

O,  how  often  in  the  glory  of  the  days  forever  gone, 
I  have  drunk  the  crooning  story  of  that  mimic  Alpine  horn. 
There's  a  solace  in  its  soughing  that  no  earthly  music  brings, 
There's  a  cadence  in  its  wooing  never  heard  in  court  of  kings, 
There's  a  rhythm  in  the  rustle  of  its  low  enchanting  lines, 
For  heaven's  sweetest  zephyrs  made  the  music  of  the  pines, 
Swept  the  lyre  of  lyric  needles  in  that  band  among  the  pines. 


220  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

I  have  heard  the  martial  music  of  a  conquering  army  come 
With  the  blare  of  boastful  bugle  and  the  thunder  of  the  drum. 
I  have  mused  upon  the  measures  of  a  sweet  Italian  band 
Till  my  reeling  spirit  wandered  as  a  bird  in  Edenland; 
But  there  is  no  earthly  music  e'er  conceived  in  mortal  minds 
Like  the  music  of  my  childhood  in  the  band  among  the  pines, 
Like  the  music  that  I  ne'er  shall  hear  again  from  out  the 
pines. 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

HEART  of  the  sunset  sky- 
Sleeping  so  quietly, 

Flushed  with  the  pinkness  of  sleep  and  of  rest. 
Heart  of  the  sleeping  sky  — 
Throbbing  with   ecstasy  —  • 
Pulsing  the  pink  through  the  breast  of  the  west. 

Soul  of  the  dying  sky  — 

Dying  so  quietly, 
Melting  and  merging  in  shadows  of  night. 

Soul  of  the  dying  sky, 

Dying  —  yet  gloriously, 
Living  again  in  thy  life  and  thy  light. 

H-H-" 
HOW  OLD   WASH   SOLD  THE  FILLY. 

OLD    WASH    paced    into  my    study  the  other  day    the 
most  woe-begone  darky  in  Tennessee.     There  was  a 
halt  in  his  walk,  a  creak  in  his  step  and  a  crick  in  his  neck. 
"Boss,"  he  said,  as  I  motioned  him  to  sit  down  on  the 
black  mohair  stool  in  the  corner  till  I  finished  writing,  "de 
ole  man  bin  mighty  mizrified  fur  er  week  er  mo'.    Hes  you 
got  ennything  layin'  'round  loose  dat  would  hep  'im  to  git  er 
move  on  hissef?     Enny  kind  er  —  " 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  22 1 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  cut  off  by  yelps  and  snarls, 
mingled  with  many  imprecations,  and  rapid  rising  from  the 
stool  on  the  part  of  him  who  a  few  minutes  before  could 
scarcely  walk.  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  the  old  man  the  stool 
was  already  occupied  by  my  ill-natured  black-and-tan  terrier, 
who  thought  she  had  a  preempted  right  to  that  particular 
piece  of  furniture. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  all  I've  got  lying  around  loose  to-day, 
Wash,"  I  said,  as  the  old  man  stood  rubbing  the  seat  of  his 
trousers  and  eyeing  with  withering  contempt  the  spluttering 
and  sneezing  dog  who  was  appealing  to  me  for  sympathy. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  I  asked,  as  I  laid  aside  my  work 
at  the  chance  of  hearing  some  of  his  drollery. 

For  answer  the  old  man  slowly  ran  his  hand  into  the 
tail  pocket  of  his  threadbare  Prince  Albert  and  drew  forth 
a  crumpled  paper. 

"Does  you  recognize  dis?"  he  said,  as  he  drew  out  a 
paper. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said;  "that's  the  horse  paper  of  December, 
1892." 

"Den  jes  read  at  dis  place,"  he  said,  pointing  at  a  para 
graph  with  the  air  of  a  lawyer  who  is  about  to  entice  a  wit 
ness  into  a  trap  he  had  set  for  him.  I  read  it  aloud.  It 
was  the  closing  paragraph  of  my  editorial  on  the  situation 
for  1892: 

"On  the  whole,  though  the  season  of  1892  has  not  been 
as  promising  as  it  should  have  been,  owing  to  several  bad 
failures,  there  is  now  no  doubt  that  we  have  passed 
through  the  worst  of  the  hard  times  and  may  now  con 
fidently  expect  to  see  better  times  for  next  year.  A  good 
time  to  stay  in  a  business  is  when  others  are  going  out." 

"Well,  what  about  it?"  I  asked. 

"O,  nuffin',"  said  the  old  man,  a  little  ironically,  I 
thought.  "Nuffin'  t'all,  'cept  dat  little  verse  ob  poetry  jes' 
ruined  me,  dat's  all!" 


i>22  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

"Why,  how's  that?"  I  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Wai,  sah,"  said  the  old  man,  "hits  jes'  dis  way:  Does 
you  kno'  my  Red  Pilot  filly?  Ten  pacin'  crosses  widout 
er  single  break!  Fust  dam  by — " 

"Never  mind,"  I  cried — for  I  hated  to  hear  him  start 
on  an  endless  pedigree — "what  about  her?  I  know  all  about 
her,  go  on." 

The  old  man  looked  sorrowfully  into  the  fire. 

"She'd  er  bin  sumbudy  els's  'cept  fur  dat  profercy. 
She'd  er  bin  sumbudy  els's  darlin'  but  fur  de  brilliant  profit 
dat  knowed  more  den  de  Almighty  about  whut  de  naixt  year 
was  gwinter  bring  forth!  But  fur  readin'  dat  an'  bleevin' 
it,"  he  said,  "I'd  er  sold  dat  filly  wid  her  ten  pacin'  crosses 
fur  three  hundred  dollars — thirty  dollars  er  cross!  Grate 
heaben,  what  er  fool  I  wus!  I  hed  dat  offered  fur  her,  but 
whut  did  I  do  when  I  read  dat?  Sot  back  an'  axed  five 
hundred  dollars  fur  her!  Sold  my  hog  meat  ter  buy  her 
cohn  an'  oats  an'  wait  fur  de  millenneum  ob  ateen-ninety- 
three  ter  cum  dat  he  hoss-profet  sed  wus  comin'!" 

"And  did  it  come?"  I  asked.  The  old  man  looked  at 
me  almost  pitifully.  Instead  of  replying  he  drew  out  an 
other  paper.  This  was  dated  December,  1893,  and  the  para 
graph  he  had  singled  out  was  also  mine: 

"Taken  as  a  whole  this  has  been  the  worst  year  for  the 
sale  of  harness  horses  that  has  been  known  for  a  long  time. 
It  seems  the  boom  has  collapsed,  but  it  is  also  plain  that 
every  fictitious  element  has  been  eliminated  and  next 
year  will  see  the  business  once  more  on  a  solid  foundation. 
Don't  sell  your  pacers  now — you  will  be  sorry." 

"An'  I  was  sorry,  sah;  sorry  I  didn't  sell,  too,"  he  said. 
"O,  ef  er  certain  hoss  profet  I  kno',"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
innocently,  "hed  libbed  in  de  time  ob  Noah,  dey  wouldn't 
er  had  no  use  fur  Jeremiah,  Izear  an'  de  whale  dat  swallered 
Joner.  Relyin'  on  dat  blessed  promis,"  he  said,  "I  most 
'pintedly  "fused  one  hundred  an'  fifty  dollars  fur  dat  filly, 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  223 

sot  back  on  my  dignerty,  an'  waited  fur  de  star  to  rise  in 
de  east.  An'  did  it  cum  ter  pass?  No,  sah,  'sted  ob  dat 
de  filly  went  to  grass — an'  when  dat  gib  out  she  cum  mighty 
nigh  goin'  to  de  bone  yard.  But  long  t'wards  de  winter  ob 
dat  rocky  year,  er  feller  cum  erlong  an'  sed  he'd  gib  me  fifty 
dollers  fur  her  ruther  den  see  her  starve.  So  de  naixt  day 
I  put  de  halter  on  'er  an'  foch*  'er  in  to  turn  'er  over  to  de 
buyer.  But  when  I  got  to  town  I  foun'  my  hoss  paper 
in  de  postoffis'  an'  de  wurds  ob  de  profet  wus  in  it  clear  es  er 
crystal  bell.  Heah  it  am,"  he  said,  as  he  thrust  another 
paper  at  me.  I  blushed  slightly  as  I  read: 

"The  season  of  1894  has  gone,  and  though  it  has  been 
full  of  trials  and  tribulations,  low  prices,  hard  times,  finan 
cial  panics,  and  bursted  banks,  the  recent  sale  of  horses  in 
Ohio,  New  York  and  other  states  confirm  the  now  almost 
universal  belief  that  the  year  1895  will  find  the  horse  business 
once  more  on  hand  and  doing  better  than  ever.  This  is 
positively  affirmed  by  the  fact  that  many  mushroom  breed 
ers  have  sold  out  and  quit.  The  supply  is  necessarily  nearly 
exhausted,  especially  for  pacers,  and  he  who  can  hold  till 
1895  will  reap  a  fortune." 

"Dat  settled  it  wid  me,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  tuck 
de  filly  back  home,  stopped  de  chillun  frum  skule,  sold  de 
'possum  dog,  lied  erbout  my  taxes,  shet  off  de  missionery 
fund  fer  de  church,  closed  down  on  de  preacher,  an'  spent 
de  money  in  forty  cent  oats  an'  fifty  cent  cohn  to  stuff  hit 
erway  in  dat  filly  fur  de  cumin'  ob  de  angel!  But  he  passed 
my  house  by.  You  kno'  what  dis  year  has  bin,"  said  he. 
"Ef  de  yudder  years  hes  bin  rocky,  dis  year  hes  bin  ashy. 
Ef  de  yudder  years  hes  bin  bottomless,  dis  one  hes  bin 
volcanic — jes'  seem  to  hev  got  down  es  low  es  it  cud  an' 
den  throwed  up  whut  it  cudn't  reach!  Dey  say  us  in  de  hoss 
bizness  am  sufferin'  fur  de  sins  ob  our  daddies;  ef  dis  am 
so  de  origernal  daddy  ob  de  hoss  bizness  must  er  slid  outer 
Sodam  an'  Termorrow,  jes'  befo'  de  yearth  quake!  Dey  say 


224  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

we  must  suffer  to  de  third  an'  de  forth  generashun,  but  hit 
'pears  to  me  de  bizness  dun  passed  through  forty  crosses  ob 
tribelashun  already! 

"By  March  she  hed  et  me  out  ob  ebrything  but  er  little 
Jersey  bull  an'  er  hatrack,  an'  I  cudn't  git  ten  dollers  fur 
dat  filly  wid  her  ten  pacin'  crosses!  By  June  I  hed  offered 
her  ter  er  farmer  ef  he'd  keep  us  in  buttermilk  twell  de  black 
berries  cum.  'No,  siree,'  he  say,  'I'm  feedin'  my  butter 
milk  to  hogs,  an'  I  kno'  I  kin  sell  dem!'  When  my  darter 
got  married,  I  tried  to  gib  de  filly  to  'er  fur  er  bridle  pres 
ent;  but  she  lowed  ef  she  hed  to  hev  ennything  in  de  pacin' 
line  fur  er  bridle  gift  she'd  take  er  rockin'  cheer  an'  er 
cradle,  an'  at  last  when  I  dun  clean  gib  up,  heah  cum  de 
cunstable  to  levy  on  sumpin'  fur  de  oats  I  bought  an  cudn't 
pay  fur  at  de  grocers,  an'  I  say  to  myself,  Thang  goodness, 
she'll  go  now,  sho'!'  but  she  didn't,"  said  the  old  man  as  he 
wiped  a  tear,  "he  found  out  I  had  de  little  Jersey  bull  dat 
weighed  two  hundred  pouns',  wurf  two  cents  er  poun',  left, 
an'  by  de  gable  ob  de  temple  ef  he  didn't  take  dat  little  bull 
an'  lef  me  dat  pacin'  filly  in  de  stall!" 

Here  the  old  man's  tears  were  running  freely  as  he 
brought  down  his  fist  and  exclaimed:  "Dat's  my  luck — 
dat's  Ole  Wash's  luck  all  ober!  Why,  boss,  ef  I'd  buy  er 
carload  ob  ice  in  Augus'  an  ship  it  to  Hades  dey'd  cum 
er  big  freeze  down  dar  de  night  befo'  it  got  dar,  an'  dey 
wouldn't  be  no  demand  fur  it  de  naixt  day!  O,  I  b'leeves 
in  hoss-profets,"  he  said,  ironically,  'an'  ain't  I  jes'  waitin' 
fur  de  next  paper  to  tell  me  to  hold  on  to  dat  filly  endurin' 
ateen-ninety-next-century!  I'll  b'leeve — " 

But  the  old  man  never  got  any  farther;  he  was  interrupted 
by  a  great  commotion  in  the  back  yard.  He  went  out  of 
the  door  like  a  two-year-old,  but  soon  came  prancing  back 
like  Strathberry  in  hobbles. 

"Thang  goodness!"  he  said,  "I've   sold  'er!     I've  sold 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  225 

"To  whom?"  I  asked,  surprised  now,  myself. 

"To  de  Luisville  an'  Nashville  railroad,"  he  said — "ten 
pacin'  crosses  at  fifty  dollars  a  cross!  You  see,  boss,"  he 
said,  breathlessly,  "de  ole  'oman  wus  ridin'  her  to  mill  jes' 
now,  an'  she  got  to  jawin'  wid  ernudder  'oman  jes'  er  little 
too  long  to  miss  er  frate  train  dat  cum  erlong,  an'  dat  orter 
stopped  'twell  she  got  through  talkin',  an'  hit  killed  de  filly 
an'  broke  de  old  'oman's  jaw,  an'  de  doctah  say  she  can't 
talk  no  mo'  twell  next  Christmas!  Thang  Gawd  fur  two 
sech  blessins! — de  rightus  am  nurver  fursaken!"  And  he 
rushed  out  to  find  a  lawyer,  but  not  until  he  had  drawn  off 
the  following  quaint  account  which  he  asked  me  to  send  to 
the  company: 

L.  &  N.  R.  R Dr. 

To  Ole  Wash. 
Nov.  i,  1895. 

To  breakin'  Dinah's  jaw $000.05 

To  sale  of  ten  pacin'  crosses  at  $50  a  cross 500.00 


N.  B.-Gentlemen:  $5°°-OS 

Pay  fur  de  crosses  an'  I'll  knock  off  fur  de  jaw. 

OLE  WASH. 

And  as  he  pocketed  his  money  he  chuckled  and  re 
marked  to  me:  "I  tell  you,  boss,  dey  ain't  nuffin  lak  crossin' 
our  fillies  on  a  locomotive  to  improve  de  breed  in  dis  state." 

It  took  a  lawsuit  but  —  he  sold  her! 


WORK  THROUGH  IT  ALL. 

HOPE,  tho'  misfortune  o'ertake  you, 
Smile,  tho'  you  go  to  the  wall, 
Bend  to  the  blast  that  would  break  you, 
But  work,  aye,  work  through  it  all. 


,2f,  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

Weep,  when  the  cloud  of  your  sorrow 
Comes  with  its  mist  and  its  pall, 

But  tears  make  your  rainbow  to-morrow 
If  you  work  as  you  weep — through  it  all. 

Give,  for  you  grow  with  the  giving, 
Live,  but  with  love  at  your  call, 

Be  brave,  be  a  man  in  your  living, 
And  work  as  a  man  through  it  all. 

Look  up,  as  the  weaver  of  laces, 

Your  pattern  hung  high  on  the  wall, 

Your  soul  on  the  beauty  it  traces, 
Your  hands  busy  working  withal. 


O. 


THE  OLD  PLANTATION. 

I'M  sick  an  'tired  an'  lonely, 

An'  I'd  give  the  worl',  if  only 
I  could  see  the  ole  plantation  where  I  played  so  long  ago. 

See  the  willers' — swishin',  swishin' — 

In  the  creek — jes'  right  for  fishin' — 
Hear  the  tinkle  of  the  cow-bell  in  the  medder  jes'  below, 

An'  to  lay  there,  blinkin',  blinkin', 

In  the  hazy  sun,  an'  thinkin' 

Of  the  batty-cakes  fur  supper,  with  the  berries  an'  the  cream, 
Of  the  batty-cakes  an' berries  that  would  vanish  like  a  dream. 

O,  I'm  sick  an'  tired  an'  lonely 

An'  I'd  give  a  hoss  if  only 
I  could  drink  ergin  the  buttermilk  I  drunk  so  long  ago. 

In  the  dairy,  cool  an'  curlin' 

With  the  water  'round  it  purlin' 
An'  the  white-wash  walls  a-shinin'  in  a  microbe-killin'  glow, 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  227 

Jes'  to  drink  there,  sorter  dreamy, 
Eatin'  hoe-cake,  crisp  an'  creamy, 

With  the  smell  of  fryin'  batty-cakes  upon  the  evenin'  air  — 
Fryin'  batty-cakes  an'  bakin'  floatin'  on  the  evenin'  air. 

O,  I'm  sick  an'  tired  an'  lonely, 
But  I'd  walk  a  state  if  only 

I  could  walk  in  on  the  ole  folks  that  I  loved  so  long  ago, 
On  the  mother,  knittin',  knittin', 
An'  the  father  smokin',  sittin' 

Where  the  sun-beams  loved  to  flicker  an'  the  moon-beams 
loved  to  flow, 

Jes'  to  set  there,  noddin',  winkin', 
Full  of  batty-cakes  an'  thinkin' 
'Bout  time  to  kiss  'em  good-night  now,  an'  lay  me  down  to 

sleep  — 

Kiss  'em  good-night  now  forever  —  an'  then  lay  me  down  to 
sleep. 


RECONCILIATION. 

OUT  from  the  meadow,  bathed  in  bright 
Bob—  Bob—  White! 
An  answer,  back  from  the  cool  copse-height 

Bob—  White! 

The  humdrum  beetle  drones  his  horn, 
The  cradling  breezes  lull  the  corn, 
But  still  that  truant  call  goes  on  — 

Bob—  Bob—  White! 
And  back  with  keen  Xantippe  scorn  — 

Bob—  White!   ; 

Out  from  the  meadow's  ling'ring  light  — 

Bob—  Bob—  White! 
An  echo,  back  from  the  dark  hill's  height  — 

Bob—  White! 


228  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

The  drowsy  night-lids  droop  adown, 
With  ribbon'd  rays  her  ringlets  bound  — 
And  still  there  echoeth  'round  and  'round  — 

Bob—  Bob—  White! 
And  still  form  the  hill  that  haughty  sound  — 

Bob—  White! 

Faintly  now  from  the  copse-hill's  height  — 

Bob—  Bob—  White! 
And  fainter  yet,  'mid  the  soft  twilight  — 

Bob—  White! 

Was  that  the  chirruping  sound  of  a  kiss, 
The  star-beam's  dream  of  a  wedded  bliss, 
Or  the  faintest  kind  of  a  call  like  this  — 

Thy—  Bob—  White! 
And  the  softest  kind  of  an  answer  —  'tis: 

Quite  right! 


HOW  OLE  WASH  CAPTURED  A  GUN. 

JENNIE,  the  famous  dun  mule  of  Wilson  county,  Kan 
sas,  is  dead.  Jennie  was  so  old  that  men  had  long 
since  quit  guessing  on  her  age.  She  was  gray  over  the  eyes 
when  Jim  Johnson  drove  her  into  Wilson  county,  and  that 
occurred  in  1871.  She  bore  on  her  hip  the  United  States 
army  brand,  and  popular  tradition  had  it  that  she  participated 
in  the  Mexican  war." 

When  old  Wash  saw  the  above,  he  was  very  much  ex 
ercised  and  wanted  to  go  over  to  Kansas  to  see  about  it. 

"Why,  suh,"  he  said  "dat's  de  same  dun  mule  I  wus 
plowin'  on  a  rocky  hillside  up  at  Double  Branches  in  de  fall 
of  a'teen  sixty-two,  when  Wilson's  raiders  cum  through  Ten 
nessee  an'  tuk  me  an'  dat  mule  bofe  erlong  an'  made  sojers 
outen  us.  Hit's  jes  lak  de  paper  sed—  I  knowed  ebry  ha'r 


FROM    TENNESSEE  229 

on  her  an'  she  wus  trottin'  bred  frum  her  head-end  to  her 
lightnin'  end,  bein'  by  a  Spanish  jack  outen  a  mare  by  a  son 
of  imported  Messenger.  She  wus  drapped  de  fall  Jeems  K. 
Poke  wus  'lected  preserdent,  an'  she  went  thru  de  Mexerken 
war,  jes  lak  de  paper  say.  Ef  dey'll  only  dig  her  up  an'  see 
ef  she's  got  a  scar  on  her  lef  hin'  heel  dey  won't  be  no  doubt 
ob  it  at  all.  She  got  dat  scar  by  kickin'  a  solid  shot  frum  a 
forty-pounder  dat  deMexerkens  had  fired  at  our  men,  back  in 
to  de  Mexekin  line,  an'  killin'  er  whole  regiment  ob  Mexekins 
jes'  in  de  act  ob  sayin'  dey  ebenin'  prayer!  Fur  de  Lord 
sake,  boss,  hit's  de  truth!  I  w'udn't  lie  'bout  er  mule!  An' 
I  jes  lak  ter  see  her  onc't  mo' — fur  she  wus  de  cause  ob  my 
bein'  so  inderpendent  terday." 

"How  was  that?""  I  asked.  "I  thought  you  said  Wil 
son's  raiders  got  you  both." 

"So  dey  did,  so  dey  did,"  he  said,  "an*  dat's  de  pint  I'm 
arter.  You  see,  dey  tuck  us  bofe  an'  made  sojers  outen  us. 
Dey  put  de  dun  mule  to  pullin'  cannons  an'  put  me  to  diggin' 
ditches,  wid  er  whole  rigerment  ob  yudder  niggers,  an'  throw- 
in'  up  breastworks  an'  tunnelin'  hills  'round  Nashvul.  I 
swear  to  you,  suh,  ef  enny  body  thinks  sojernin'  am  play,  jes' 
let  'em  jine  de  army  de  naixt  scrap  Unk  Sam  gits  into.  Befo' 
ninety  days  am  out  dey'll  yearn  fer  white-winged  peace  wus- 
ser  den  de  animules  shet  up  in  de  ark  yearned  fur  de  flutter 
ob  de  dove's  wing! 

"But  wusser  times  wus  comin'!  An'  when  Hood's 
army  cum  in  de  Yankees  gin  us  guns  an'  tole  us  we  had  ter 
fight  or  be  cotch  an'  hung  ter  telegraf  postes!  Says  I  to  de 
offercer: 

"  'Good  Lord,  Marse  Yankee,  I  don't  wanter  shoot  at 
no  white  folks!  'Spose  I  happen  to  hit  Ole  Marster,  or  one 
of  Mister  Forrest's  men,  whut  dem  white  folks  gwi'  do  ter 
dis  nigger  ef  dey  ketch  'im?  Nigger  don't  kno'  nuffin'  'bout 
huntin'  enny  thing  but  possums — lemme  do  de  diggin'.  Sez 
I,  'I'd  ruther  dig  er  hole  ter  Chiny  fur  you  dan  ter  face  dem 


230  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

cannons  ob  Mister  Forrest's  men  wid  Marse  John  Morton  er 
pullin'  ob  de  trigger!' 

"But  dat  jes  made  de  offercer  mad  wid  me,  an'  he  tole 
me  ef  we  didn't  go  an'  shoot  dey'd  hang  us  fur  disserters.  I 
tell  you,  boss,  de  nigger  whut  wus  captured  an'  pressed  in 
ter  dat  war  wus  sho'  in  er  tight  place.  Ef  he  didn't  fight,  de 
Yankees  hung  'im  an'  ef  he  did  fight  de  Johnnies  shot  'im! 
Gawd,  I  don't  want  no  mo'  ob  it!  Dey  ain't  gwi'  git  me  in 
no  war  wid  Spain! 

"Wai,  suh,  dey  saunt  me  out  to  de  frunt  soon  es  Gineral 
Hood  got  posted  on  de  hills  souf  ob  Nashvul.an'dey  marched 
'us  all  out  in  de  line  ter  take  er  big  gun  on  er  hill.  I 
swear  to  you,  boss,  ef  you  ain't  nurver  been  marched  up  ter 
take  er  big  gun  an'  hit  loaded  an'  pinted  at  you,  you  don't 
kno'  whut  it  am  to  hab  de  mos'  miserbul,  unkomplementry 
feelin's  in  dis  wurl  chasing  each  yudder  up  an'  down  yo' 
back-bone.  Ebry  step  I  tuk  it  'peared  lak  my  feet  jes'  stuck 
to  de  yearth,  an'  I  wus  so  skeered  de  cold  sweat  stood  in 
beads  all  ober  my  gun-barrel!  Ebry  bone  in  my  body  got 
stiff  es  er  stick  'cept  my  backbone,  an'  dat  jes'  seem  ter 
wanter  curl  up  an'  lay  down  on  the  sunny  side  ob  sumpin'  an' 
go  to  sleep. 

"When  we  fus  started  we  wus  two  miles  frum  dat  gun, 
an'  hit  didn't  seem  to  be  much  bigger'n  a  locus'  tree,  an'  de 
hole  in  it  'bout  big  ernuff  fur  er  rabbit  ter  run  in.  But  befo' 
we  marched  fifty  yards,  boss,  dat  gun  wus  es  big  es  de  bigges' 
poplar  in  de  woods,  wid  er  hole  in  it  big  ernuff  fur  er  she 
ba'r  an'  her  cubs  ter  crawl  in,  an'  hit  wus  p'inted  straight  at 
my  head — jes'  picked  me  out  an'  nobody  else!  I  stood  it 
fer  er  leetle  while,  an'  when  de  offercers  wan't  lookin'  I 
drapped  out  ob  de  ranks  an'  fell  in  ergin  'way  down  to  de 
lef,  an'  t'inks  I:  'You  ain't  p'intin'  at  me  now,  sho'!'  but, 
bless  yo'  soul,  when  I  look  up  ergin  dar  it  wus  p'inting  'at 
me  an'  nobody  else!  I  nurver  heurd  ob  er  gun  singlin'  out 
one  nigger  in  er  thousan'  befo'  but  dat's  whut  dat  gun  wus 
doin'f 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  231 

"We  marched  on  er  leetle  furder,till  I  seed  de  ball  startin' 
outen  it.  I  seed  de  fiah  flash  an'  de  ball  start  out  jes'  es 
plain  es  I  see  de  sun  in  heaben  dis  minnit!  At  fust  hit  wan't 
bigger  den  de  moon,  but  befo'  it  got  half-way  cross  dat  val 
ley  it  wus  big  es  de  sun,  an'  es  it  cum  rollin'  on  straight  fur 
me,  fo'  de  Lord,  boss,  it  got  bigger  an'  bigger,  till  it  looked 
lak  ernudder  wurl  rollin'  on,  black  es  de  pit  ob  doom  an' 
spitten'  out  fiah  an'  brimstone,  an'  smoke  an'  saltpeter,  an' 
Gord-knows-whut,  an'  rolling,  an'  er-r-o-l-l-lin',  an'  er-r-o-1- 
1-i-n'  es  straight  for  me  es  ef  I  wus  de  onlies'  nigger  in  de 
whole  rigiment!  Hits  de  truf  ef  I  eber  tole  hit! 

"Jes' den  de  offercer  he  holler  out,  'Charge!'  an'  I  charged 
sho'  nuff — dat's  whut  I'd  bin  wantin'  to  do  eber  sence  I 
started.  I  charged  fur  er  rock  fence  lak  er  groun'  squir'l. 
But  when  I  peeped  ober  dat  fence  dar  cum  dat  ball  straight 
fur  me  ergin,  er  rollin'  an'  er  r-o-l-l-lin'  an  er  r-o-1- 
l-i-n!  I  got  up  from  dar  an'  lit  out  roun'  Marse 
John  Overton's  brick  smoke-house,  an'  den  I  peeped  frum 
'roun'  de  cornder  ob  dat  house,  an'  I  hope  I  may  go  in 
de  trottin'  hoss  bizness  jes'  on  de  ebe  ob  de  naixt  Clevelan' 
misrepresentashum,  an'  see  my  thousan'  dollar  colts  go 
beggin'  fur  coon  skins,  ef  dat  ball  wasn't  headed  straight 
fur  dat  smoke-house  jes'  lak  hit  knew  I  wus  dar — er  rollin', 
an'  er  r-o-l-lin',  an'  er  r-o-l-l-i-n'!  Gord',  sez  I, 
'I  can't  stay  heah!'  An'  I  lit  out  an'  tacked  ercross 
er  hundred  acre  wheat  fiel',  runnin'  fust  dis  way  an'  den  dat, 
an'  'round  an'  'round  er  big  hill,  but  dat  ball  jes  tuck 
ercross  de  fiel'  too,  an'  tacked  when  I  tacked,  an'  turned 
cornders  when  I  turned  cornders,  an'  went  'round  an' 
'round  dat  hill,  er  rollin'  an'  er  r-o-l-lin'  straight  fur 
me  an'  nobody  else,  an'  I'd  bin  er  dead  nigger 
dis  day  ef  I  hadn't  fell  in  er  twenty-foot  sink  hole,  jes'  es  de 
ball  tuck  off  my  cap  an'  rolled  on,  killen'  ten  thousan'  men 
fo'  miles  on  de  yudder  side  ob  de  ribber  and  bored  dat  tun 
nel  thru'  de  hill  dis  side  ob  Nashvul  whar  de  Ellen  N 
railroad  now  run  dey  trains  thru'  ebery  day! — er  rollin'  an' 


232  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

er  r-o-l-l-lin!  Gord,  suh,  it  am  de  truf  —  I  wudn't  tell  er 
lie  fur  sech  er  thing  es  er  cannon  ball,  an*  dars  de  tunnel  dar, 
you  kin  go  thru'  enny  day  an'  see  fur  yo'sef,"  and  he  bit  off 
a  piece  of  tobacco  and  shook  his  head  long  and  earnestly. 

"A  very  narrow  escape,"  I  remarked,  "but  that  does 
not  explain  how  that  old  dun  mule  was  the  cause  of  your 
present  prosperity." 

"I'm  cummin'  to  dat  now,"  he  said  as  he  put  his  tobacco 
back  into  his  hat,  his  red  handkerchief  on  his  tobacco  and 
the  whole  on  his  head.  "When  I  fell  in  dat  sink  hole  er 
runnin'  from  dat  ball,  I  broke  three  ribs,  an'  Gord  bless  yo' 
soul,  honey,  Uncle  Sam  ain't  gwi'  see  his  sojers  suffer  in 
dey  ole  aige  fur  hunurbul  wounds  got  in  battle,  an'  ef  I  ain't 
drawin'  ebry  quarter,  three  dollars  an'  sixty-two  cents  fur 
each  one  ob  dem  ribs  den  my  name  ain't  Shadrack  Ebenezer 
Zadoc  Washington  Grundy,  an'  dat's  de  truf!" 


MOLLIE. 

NO  fern-leaf  sprang  from  mountain  moss 
With  blither  grace  than  Mollie's. 
No  lily  on  the  lake  across 

Had  fairer  face  than  Mollie's. 
And  when  the  lily  lifted  up 
The  bubbling  bubbles  in  her  cup 
From  cut-glass  pools  where  fern-maid's  sup, 
She  drank  a  health  to  Mollie. 

No  wild-sloe  hid,  'neath  tan  and  red 
A  ruddier  blush  than   Mollie's. 

No  wild-rose  held  a  queenlier  head 

Where  sang  the  thrush  than  Mollie's, 

And  when  the  red-thrush  saw  the  maid  — 

A  glint  of  glory  down  the  glade  — 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  233 

He  sang  his  sweetest  serenade, 
A  serenade  for  Mollie. 

No  muscadine  peeped  from  her  vine 

With  saucier  eyes  than  Mollie's. 
No  wild-bee  sought  her  globes  of  wine 

With  softer  sighs  than  Mollie's. 
For  when  she  sighed,  and  I  did  make 
Me  bold,  a  trembling  kiss  to  take, 
I  saw  them  all  —  wine,  roses,  lake  — 

All  in  the  eyes  of  Mollie. 


O  VOICES  THAT  LONG  AGO  LEFT  ME. 


O 


VOICES  that  long  ago  left  me, 

O  eyes  that  were  long  ago  bright, 
How  often  you  come  when  the  shadows 

Creep  into  the  eyes  of  the  night, 
When  the  moon-misted   shadow  encloses 

The  sorrow-starred  eyes  of  the  night — 
With  you  in  a  wreathing  of  roses 
And  rhymed  in  the  laughter  of  light. 

O,  voices  that  long  ago  left  me, 

O,  eyes  that  were  long  ago  bright, 
Why,  why  do  ye  come  with  the  shadows 

And  why  do  ye  not  with  the  light — 
In  the  sun-shimmer'd  glory  of  olden 

In  the  sun-silvered  sweetness  of  light? 
Have  ye  learned  that  our  tears  become  golden 

When  merged  with  the  music  of  flight? 

Then  lead  me,  dear  voices  that  left  me, 

And  bring  me,  dear  eyes  that  were  bright, 


234  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

To  that  home  where  ye  dwelleth  forever, 

To  that  land  where  there  never  is  night  — 

To  that  love-ling'ring  land  where  the  portal 
Knows  naught  of  the  shadow  of  night, 

And  the  wreathing  of  roses  immortal 
Is  rhymed  with  the  laughter  of  light. 


TO  A  MORNING  GLORY. 

THOU  art  the  dream  of  Nature  when  she  sleeps 
And  dreams  of  youth-time  and  sweet  April's  eyes, 
And  slum'bring  now,  lo!  'round  her  breast  there  creeps 
This  pictured  vision  of  departed  skies. 

Departed  skies,  concaved,  with  clouds  of  snow 
Cerulean-depthed,  that  left  us  long  ago. 

And  thou  art  Nature's  memory  when  she  wakes 

All  conscience-clear  and  weeping  o'er  the  past, 
Clear-visioned,  keen,  her  yearning  soul  partakes 
Of  that  which  was,  but  was  too  pure  to  last. 

And  so  she  holds,  with  soft  light  breaking  low, 
Holds  to  her  heart  the  hopes  of  long  ago. 


BR'ER  WASHINGTON'S  ARRAIGNMENT. 

I  AIN'T  nurver  tole  you  'bout  de  time  dey  had  me  up  befo' 
de  jedge  at  Nashvul  fur  makin',  without  license,  er  lee- 
tie  ob  dat  licker  dat  makes  kings  ob  us  all,  is  I  ?"  asked  old  Wash 
the  other  day.  "I  don't  kno'  how  in  de  wurl  dey  kotch  me," 
continued  the  old  darkey,  "fur  I'd  bin  makin'  it  eber  sense  de 
war  up  in  de  holler  ob  de  Indian  Camp  Springs,  whar  de  In 
dians  made  it  long,  long  ergo,  befo'  enny  ob  us  wus  bohn  — 
jes'  fo'  or  five  galuns  to  keep  de  ole  man's  cow-ketcher 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  235 

gwine,"  he  continued,  "an'  I  don't  see  how  in  de  wurl  dese 
heah  river-new  offercers  foun'  it  out.  But  dey  did,  an'  fur 
one  time  de  ole  man  was  sho'  in  a  tight  place. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  "it  ain't  ebrybody  kno'  how  to 
make  good  whisky.  I  don't  mean  dis  heah  stuff  dese  po' 
white  trash  makes  up  in  de  mountings,  so  strong  an'  vile  dat 
when  you  oncork  a  bottle  ob  it  on  dis  yearth  it  make  de  deb- 
bil  sneeze  in  de  reguns  below.  But  I'm  talkin'  'bout  sho' 
miff  whisky — whisky  dat  sho'  nuff  white  folks  drink — so 
pwore  an'  ripe  dat  all  you  hafter  do  is  to  oncork  de  stopper 
on  dis  yearth  an'  watch  de  roses  bloom  in  paradise. 

"You  must  make  it  in  October,"  he  said  knowingly,  "er- 
bout  de  time  de  fall  poet  begins  to  write  his  poem  on  de 
golden  rod,  when  de  leabs  begin  to  turn  purple  an'  golden, 
an'  de  air  am  crisp  an'  sparklin',  an'  de  spring  water  am  full 
ob  fallin'  nuts,  an'  de  'romer  ob  de  sweet  night  dews.  You 
mus'  kotch  yore  water  frum  outen  er  col'  spring  dat  flows 
frum  under  sum  sweet  paw-paw  tree,  runnin'  ober  er  bed-rock 
ob  blue  limestone,  in  which  er  few  acuns  dun  drapt  to  gib  it 
de  strenf  ob  de  oak  tree.  Den,  sum  night  when  de  moon  am 
full  an'  de  sent  ob  de  wild  haws  fill  all  de  air,  jes'  go  out — but 
dar  now,"  he  said,  laughingly,  "whut's  all  dat  gotter  do  wid 
dis  story?  Nemminejes'you  cum' round  to  my  cabin  sum  day, 
child,  an'  lemme  let  you  taste  it  oncet.  It's  den  you'll  see 
de  gates  ob  glory  open  fur  er  minnit  or  two,  an'  de  ladder  of 
konsolashun  run  up  an'  down  'twixt  de  heaben  an'  de  yearth. 
O,  it's  den  you'll  wish  yore  neck  wus  er  spiral  pipe,  runnin' 
roun'  an'  roun',  so  dat  one  drink  would  hafter  go  fifty  miles 
befo'  it  got  outer  sight,"  and  the  old  man  laughed  heartily. 

"But  dey  cotch  me,"  he  continued,  "an'  dey  tuck  me  to 
Nashvul,  an'  when  dey  put  me  in  de  jail  my  folks  all  got 
erroun'  me  an'  cried  an'  tole  me  good-bye,  an'  my  wife  she 
tuck  it  pow'ful  hard  an'  she  wanted  to  go  an'  git  de  preacher 
to  cum  an'  pray  fur  me.  Dat's  de  way  wid  sum  kristuns," 
said  the  old  man,  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  his  tone,  "dey 


236  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

willin'  ernuff  ter  play  hide-an'-seek  wid  de  debbil  long  es  dey 
think  dey  am  safe,  but  jes'  es  soon  es  dey  gits  cotched  up  wid 
den  dey  wanter  go  in  partnership  wid  de  Lord!  Huh!  dey 
didn't  skeer  me  'tall,  an'  I  jes'  say  to  my  wife:  'Look  heah, 
Dinah,  you  jes'  stop  yore  wailin'  an'  bellowment  an'  go  on 
home,  an'  ef  I  ain't  dar  by  cane-grindin'  time,  you  jes'  go 
on  an'  marry  Brer  Peter  Dawson,  de  preacher,  an'  on  de 
night  ob  yore  weddin'  supper,  you  jes'  go  down  to  de  medder 
spring,  dig  fo'  foot  under  it  an'  fetch  out  dat  blue  demmer- 
john  ob  bred-in-de-purple  licker  I  berrid  dar  fo'teen  years 
ergo,  an'  you  an'  Brer  Peter  jes'  drink  it  to  my  health,  fur  ef 
you  don't,  it's  so  pwore  an'  good  an'  ripe  it  will  rise  itself 
sum  day!' 

"She  kno'  by  dat  I  war  gwi'  stay  heah  in  dis  jail," 
chuckled  the  old  man;  "I  didn't  make  dat  whisky  fur  my  wife's 
secun'  husban'  to  drink.  Huh!  I  had  no  noshun  ob  stayin' 
heah  in  dis  jail  twell  cane-grindin'  time.  Not  fur  makin' 
good  whisky — now  ef  I  made  mean  whisky  dat  ud  bin  ernud- 
der  thing  an'  I'd  bin  willin'  to  plead  gilty  an'  say  far'well. 

"Den  dey  saunt  er  leetle  lawyer  to  me  an'  he  tuck  me  off 
an'  say  he  bin  'ployed  to  offen'  me.  An'  den  he  say  he  gwi' 
prove  I  wus  er  yallerby — 'dough  you  sees  yo'sef  I'm  es  black 
es  er  cro' — an'  he  say  he  gwi'  git  out  er  writ  ob  circum-cum- 
fetchum,  an'  ignis  fat-you-us,  an'  abe-et-de-corpus  an'  all 
dat.  I  tole  'im  I  much  erbleeze  ter  him,  but  I  wus  gwi'  go 
dar  an'  tell  de  truf  an'  talk  to  dat  jedge  myse'f,  an'  wus  gwi' 
file  er  cross-cut-saw-bill  into  dat  cote,  sho'! 

"Jes'  fo'  de  trial  cum  off,  I  saunt  down  to  my  wife  an' 
tole  her  to  dig  up  dat  gallun  I  dun  berrid  down  dar  in  de 
medder  fo'teen  years  befo'  an'  to  fill  up  dat  decanter  my  ole 
marster  gib  me  befo'  he  die,  an'  to  fotch  it  to  me. 

"You  nurver  seed  dat  decanter,  is  you,  suh?  O,  I  tell 
you  my  ole  Marster  wus  er  high  roller  an'  dat  decanter  wus 
er  picture  in  er  lookin'  glass.  It  wus  es  thick  es  de  roun' 
pastern  ob  de  race  hoss  an'  made  ob  one  solid  piece  ob  cut 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  237 

glass,  an'  cyarved  in  cammeos  an'  Greek  god  dermites,  an' 
de  stopper  itself  wus  de  haid  ob  de  Venus  hersef  on  er  bust — 
leastwise  dat  whut  ole  Marster  sed —  an'  he  'lowed  she  wus 
sho'  in  de  proper  place  to  be  on  a  bust!  I  tell  you,  suh, 
when  dat  whisky  got  in  dat  decanter  it  look  lak  de  grape  juce 
of  heaven  cotch  in  er  dimon'  urn  an'  framed  in  all  de  classic 
glory  ob  de  ainshunt  Greeks.  When  de  sunlight  fall  on  it,  it 
look  lak  er  big  blazin'  ruby  sot  in  de  crown  ob  er  cherubin! 

"I  slip  it  under  my  cote  an'  went  in  to  de  cote-room. 
An'  dar  dey  played  er  mean  trick  on  me,  fur  dey  sot  me  down 
in  de  same  pen  wid  er  lot  ob  po'  white  trash  frum  de  moun 
tings  dat  had  bin  cotch  in  de  mean  act  ob  makin'  wild-cat 
whisky!  Gord,  suh,  hit  made  me  mad  fur  I  wan't  used  to 
'soshatin'  wid  dat  kind  o'  white  folks! 

"Toreckly  de  jedge  an'  de  jury  cum  in  an'  de  jedge  sot 
down  an'  red  out:  'Newnighted  States  ergin  Washington 
Grundy.' 

"  'Heah,  Marster,'  sez  I,  an'  Gord  bless  yore  soul,  honey, 
I  pranced  up  befo'  dat  jedge  innercent  lookin'  es  de  new-born 
colt  when  he  paced  ober  de  speckled  calf  layin'  in  de  weeds. 
Den  de  jedge  look  ober  his  glasses  sorter  kind  lak — Gord 
bless  yo',  honey,  he  knows  er  gennerman  when  he  sees  him! 
an'  he  red  sumpin  ergin  me  an'  den  he  ax  me  ef  I'm  gilty  or 
not  gilty. 

"  'Yes,  Marster,'  sez  I,  'I'm  gilty  an'  not  gilty,  too,  an' 
I'd  lak  ter  'splain  to  this  honorbul  cote  how  it  am.' 

"De  jedge  he  smile  an'  de  jury  laf — Gord  bless  you, 
honey,  dey  knows  er  gennermen  when  dey  meet  'im  in  de 
rode,  too — an'  de  jedge  he  tells  me  I  has  de  right  to  make 
enny  explunashuns  I  wants — dat  dat  wus  my  privulage,  an' 
when  he  sed  dat,  I  jes'  made  'im  er  low  bow,  wid  my  hat  un 
der  my  arm,  an'  sez  I:  'Thank  you,  Marster,  you  am  er 
genmen  sho',  an'  er  jedge  lak  de  jedges  ob  de  Bible.'  An'  I 
laid  erside  my  hat,  button  up  tight  my  ole  dubble-b rested 


238  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

King  Alfrud  cote,  dat  ole  Marster  gin  me,  whut  he  useter 
wear  when  he  made  big  speeches,  an'  I  sez: 

"  'Marse  jedge  an'  gemmen  ob  de  jury,  you  sees  befo' 
you  heah  a  pore  old  nigger,  cotch  in  de  act  uf  manufactorin', 
fur  his  stommick's  sake,  a  leetle  ob  dat  devine  stuff  dat  makes 
kings  ob  us  all,  an'  fur  dat  reezun,  fotch  up,  in  his  ole  aige, 
befo'  dis  honorbul  cote  fur  transgreshuns  ob  de  law.  You  ax 
me  ef  I'm  gilty  ob  makin'  whisky — dat  wild-cat  stuff  dat 
makes  de  rag-weeds  bloom  in  paradise,  an'  turn  de  roses  ob 
hope  into  de  dog-fennel  ob  dispair,  an'  I  tells  you — No!  But 
if  you  ax  me  if  I  gilty  ob  makin'  er  leetle  ob  dat  dervine  'lixer, 
which  turns  de  tuneless  hart  ob  de  most  wretched  an'  mis- 
serbul  ob  mankind  into  a  hall  wid  harps  ob  er  thousan' 
strings,  es  I  nurver  tole  a  lie  in  my  life,  I  must  tell  you — Yes! 
Not  dat  vile  stuff  dat  kills  our  moral  s'washun,  an'  lays  us 
in  de  gutter  wid  de  dorgs,  but  dat  blessed  angul-ile,  which, 
taken  in  moderashun,  es  er  gemman  should,  clothes  de  beggar 
in  silk,  makes  friends  fur  de  frien'less  an'  coins  gold  fur  de 
goldless.  Dis  am  de  licker  dat  turns  rags  into  roses,  ole 
maids  into  bloomin'  gals  an'  er  grabe-yard  funeral  discorse 
into  er  poem  on  parerdise.  Dat  puts  cheerity  into  our  harts, 
youth  in  our  veins,  an'  spreads  de  warm  cumfort  ob  lub  over 
de  feather-bed  ob  de  yunerverse.  Dis  am  de  licker  dat  on- 
locks  de  doors  ob  de  'magernashun  an'  leads  de  poet's  mind 
through  de  streets  ob  gold,  'mid  crystal  pillars,  up  to  de  wall 
of  amerthest,  up  to  de  battlements  ob  light,  whar  he  sees  de 
stars  ob  beautiful  thoughts,  a  millyun  miles  befo'  dey  gets  to 
him,  cummin  on  angel  wings  in  beams  ob  sunlight!  Dis  am 
de  licker  dat  falls  lak  a  splinter  ob  starlight  to  string  de  dew- 
draps  ob  de  hart.  Dat  Sollermon  drunk,  and  David  sung  to; 
dat  Washington  praised  an'  ole  Hick'ry  swore  by.  Heah  it 
am,  gemmen  ob  de  jury,'  an'  I  pulled  out  dat  decanter  an' 
hilt  it  befo'  dey  eyes,  an'  it  blind  'em,  lak  de  sunshine  risin' 
in  de  valley — 'heah  it  am,  gemmen  ob  de  jury,'  I  sed,  'wid 
truth  in  its  eyes  an'  lub  in  its  hart — de  embottled  poem  ob 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  239 

de  yunerverse!  Taste  it,  an'  ef  it  am  whisky — dat  stuff  wid 
cat-claws  an'  debbil  breath — den  sen'  me  up  long  wid  dis 
po'  white  trash  fur  makin'  wild-cat  whisky,  es  er  groveller 
wid  swine  an'  er  eater  ob  husks. 

"  'But  ef  it  smells  lak  de  new-bohn  bref  ob  de  infunt 
anguls,  looks  into  yore  eyes  lak  de  lakes  ob  lub  in  de  depths 
ob  de  blue-eyed  cherubins,  an'  tastes  lak  de  resurrected  dream 
ob  de  fus'  kiss  yore  sweet-hart  gib  you  in  de  days  ob  long 
ergo,  den  sot  de  ole  man  free!' 

"Wid  dat,  I  oncorks  de  bottle,  an'  lo!  dat  dingy  ole  cote- 
room  change  in  er  minnit!  'Stid  ob  de  smell  ob  books,  an' 
sweatin'  lawyers,  an'  ambeer,  an'  dusty  floors,  you'd  er  thort 
all  de  skule  gals  an'  nymphs  ob  de  ages  hed  cum  dar  to  bathe, 
perfumed  wid  de  otter  ob  de  roses  ob  Eden  an'  dey  ha'r  dat 
fell  ober  dey  allerbaster  sholders  'nointed  wid  de  oil  Ep- 
pollo  made.  You'd  er  thout  de  janitor  ob  heaben  hed  turned 
de  sprinklin'  pot  ob  glory  on  de  yearth,  filled  wid  de  water 
ob  peppermint  an'  camfire,  purfumed  wid  vi'lets  an'  tinctured 
wid  angul  tears! 

"De  ole  figured  paper  on  de  walls  blossumed  into  rale 
flowers;  de  dingy  ole  winders  blazed  lak  de  winders  ob 
mohnin'  when  de  day-king  rise;  the  old  dusty  mattin'  on  de 
floor  wus  er  carpet  ob  blue  grass  down  in  de  medder,  wid 
daisys  an'  daffodils  all  ober  it,  an'  eben  de  spider-webs  on  de 
ceilin'  was  changed  into  tapestry  of  silver,  whilst  de  freskoes 
hung  down  in  fillergree  works  ob  gold.  I  looked  at  de  jedge 
an'  de  jury  an'  dar  dey  sot  in  stuperment  an'  'stonishment 
wid  acquittal  writ  in  de  tender  depths  ob  dey  meltin'  eyes. 

"I  handed  dat  decanter  to  de  fus'  jury — he  jes'  smelt 
it  an'  fell  ober  in  er  dead  faint,  callin'  out,  sorter  dream  lak, 
'Not  gilty,  not  gilty.'  De  naixt  one  taste  it,  an'  I  seed  de  light 
of  Genersis  break  in  on  'im.  De  thud  one  tuck  er  big  swaller 
an'  dey  had  to  hold  'im  to  de  yearth  to  keep  'im  frum  'vapor- 
atin',  lak  Exerdus,  to  heaben.  An'  all  de  yudders,  es  fast  es 
dey  taste  it,  wus  added  to  de  numbers  ob  dem  dat  was  fur  me! 


240  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

But  when  it  got  to  de  jedge,  suh,  he  tuck  er  grate  big  swaller 
to  see  ef  I  wus  lyin'  or  not,  an'  Gord  bless  yore  soul,  honey, 
he  hadn't  mor'n  taste  it  befo'  he  riz  frum  dat  bench,  shouted 
'Glory,  hallylujah!'  an'  fell  on  my  neck  an'  wept.  I  look 
'round  at  de  lawyurs  what  hadn't  tasted  it,  suh,  an'  dar  dey 
sot,  froze  to  dey  chairs,  wid  de  s'liver  runnin'  outen  de  cor 
ners  ob  dey  mouths  lak  po'  houns  'roun'  er  sawsage  mill.  An' 
befo'  I  knowed  whut  it  all  mean  dey  all  broke  out  singin'  dat 
good  ole  him: 

"  Dis  am  de  stuff  we  long  hab  sought, 
An'  mourned  bekase  we  foun'  it  not." 

"When  I  seed  I  had  'em  on  de  mourner's  bench,  suh, 
den  it  wus  my  time!  I  drawed  mysef  up  two  or  three  foot 
higher,  buttoned  up  my  ole  King  Alfrud  cote  anudder  link, 
an'  sed: 

"  'An'  now,  gemmen  ob  de  jury,  sense  dis  Newnighted 
States  govument  dun  see  fit  to  'raign  me,  I  wanter  'raign 
hit.  I've  bin  heah  befo',  yo'  honor.  I've  bin  heah  to  listen 
to  de  greates'  lawyer  de  State  ob  Tennessee  eber  raised,  my 
ole  Marster,  de  'Onerbul  Felix  Grundy,  an'  time  an'  ergin 
I've  seed  'im  stand  rat  heah,  in  dis  very  cote  dat  I've  got  on, 
an*  in  dis  very  room,  an'  shake  de  roof  wid  de  thunder  ob 
his  larnin'  an'  de  lightnin'  ob  his  wit.  Allers  on  de  side  ob 
de  po',  allers  on  de  side  ob  jestus.  An'  ef  he  wus  erlive  to 
day,  he'd  git  up  heah  an'  say  to  you  all:  'Let  dis  ole  nigger 
go!' — and  you  kno'  you'd  do  it. 

"  'In  de  good  ole  days,  gemmen,  he  tort  me  menny 
things.  He  tort  me  to  be  true,  to  tell  de  truf  an'  to  raise 
horses.  Men  lak  him  an'  yore  fathers,  gemmen,  tuck  my 
ancesturs  out  ob  de  jungles  ob  barbarity  an!  led  us  into  de 
blessed  temple  ob  religun  an'  light.  Dey  made  slaves  ob 
us  to  do  it,  gemmem,  but  I  thang  Gord  I  wus  erlowed  to 
be  er  slave  in  dis  wurl  fur  de  sake  ob  bein'  etunnally  free  in 
de  naixt.  Menny  an'  menny  er  time,  gemmen,  Ive  driv  my 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  241 

ole  Marster  in  his  cheeriut  an'  fo',  an'  he'd  tell  you  hissef,  ef 
he  wus  heah  to-day,  I'm  de  onlies'  nigger  lef  in  de  State 
of  Tennessee  dat  kin  drive  er  thurrerbred  fo'-in-han',  holdin' 
de  ribbins  wid  de  fo'-fingers  ob  my  lef  han'  an'  playin'  on 
de  tender  moufs  es  gently  es  er  lady  touches  de  strings  ob 
de  light  gittar.  He  made  me  er  Christun  an'  er  gentlemun, 
aigucated  my  po'  cannabal  pallit  to  de  glory  ob  Tennessee 
mutten  an'  de  sweetness  ob  Tennessee  beef.  An'  it  wus  from 
his  side-board  I  fus'  got  de  taste  ob  dat  licker  you  jes'  tasted 
— dat  licker  dat  makes  kings  ob  us  all — an'  all  I  wanted  in  dis 
wurl  wus  to  stay  wid  'im  twell  I  die. 

"  'But  in  my  ole  aige,  heah  cums  dis  Newnighted  States 
guvermen'  an'  sots  me  free.  An'  O,  Marsters,  dey  sot  me 
free  indeed — free  frum  de  friends  I  lubbed,  free  frum  de 
cumperny  ob  genmen,  free  frum  de  good  things  ob  de  wurl, 
an',  wus  ob  all,  free  frum  de  sight  but  not  de  appertite  ob 
dat  licker  dat  makes  kings  ob  us  all!  'Stid  ob  drivin'  er  cheeriut 
ob  fo'  down  de  pike  ob  de  valley  ob  plenty,  I  mus'  plow  er 
leetle  tow-haided  muel  on  de  flinty  hillsides  ob  poverty.  'Stid 
ob  soshatin'  wid  larned  men  who  sot  in  de  counsils  ob  dis 
country  an'  de  cotes  ob  de  kings,  I  mus'  be  cussed  an'  mocked 
by  de  hill-billy  an'  de  po'  white,  or  forced  to  'soshate  wid 
low-lived  an'  low-mannered  niggers  an'  fiel'-han's.  An'  'stid 
ob  drinkin'  de  'lixer  ob  life  frum  de  decanter  ob  de  gords, 
in  my  ole  aige,  I'm  forced  to  drink  de  branch  water  ob  pov 
erty  frum  de  gourd  dat  grows  in  de  barn-yard  ob  toil.  Aigu 
cated  er  gemmen,  turned  out  wid  tuffs!  Raised  on  roast  beef 
an'  mutton,  now  hafter  hustle  ter  git  bacon  an'  greens !  Used 
to  de  licker  ob  civerlizashun,  now  hafter  drink  de  branch 
water  ob  barbarerty.  An'  ef  I  chance  to  remember  de  things 
ob  my  youth  an'  yield  to  de  temptashun  ob  er  higher  aigu- 
cashun,  fotch  up  heah  in  my  ole  aige  to  be  saunt  to  jail  fur 
tryin'  to  lib  lak  er  gentlemun  an'  er  Christun.  Gentlemun, 
kin  you  do  it?  Marsters,  will  you  sen'  de  ole  man  up? 

"'No!  by  the  Eternal,  we  won't!'  said  er  nice  lookin' 


242  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

gemmen  dat  wus  settin'  on  de  jury,  an'  den  dey  all  riz  an' 
say:  'Jedge,  not  gilty!  Not  gilty!'  An'  dey  crowd  'round 
me  so  de  jedge  has  to  'journ  cote,  an'  dey  shook  my  han' 
wid  de  glory  ob  dat  licker  still  in  dey  eyes  shinin'  lak  cheru- 
bins  in  the  lakes  ob  lub.  An'  es  de  jedge  pass  out  he  tech 
my  arm  an'  say: 

"  'Washington,  de  jury  found  you  not  gilty,  but  heah 
am  fifty  dollars  to  pay  de  tax  on  de  naixt  run  ob  de  still  at 
Indian  Camp  Springs;  an'  ef  it  happens  ter  be  er  good  deal 
too  much  to  pay  de  river-new,  jes'  make  er  leetle  mo'  an' 
send  it  to  yore  friend,  de  jedge  ob  de  Suddern  Deestrick  ob 
de  Newnighted  States.'  " 


LONGIN'  FUR  TENNESSEE. 
(A  Lament  From  Yankee  Land.) 

OI'M  LONGIN',  jes'  er  longin'  fur  a  sight  ob  Tennessee, 
Fur  de  cabin  in  de  valley  'neath  de  shady  ellumtree, 
Fur  de  purple  on  de  hill-top,  an'  de  green  upon  de  plain. 
An'  dat  hazy,  lazy  sweetness  jes'  ter  fill  my  bones  ergain. 
Do  de  colts  all  cum  a-pacin'  lak  dey  useter  cum  fur  me? 
Do  de  fee'-lark  sing  es  sweetly  frum  de  shugar-maple  tree? 
Will  de  chilluns  cum  to  meet  me,  an'  my  wife,  dat's  dead  an' 

gone, 

Will  she  sing,  jes'  lak  she  useter,  in  de  cotton  an'  de  cohn? 
O,  chilluns,  I'm  cummin', 

Fur  de  ole  man's  almos'  free, 
An'  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin' 
Fur  er  sight  ob  Tennessee. 

O,  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin'  fur  er  breath  ob  Tennessee, 
Fur  de  wind  frum  off  de  mount'in  made  foreber  fur  de  free, 
Fur  de  lesson  an'  de  bless'n  in  de  blue  sky  up  erbove, 
An'  de  locus'-blossoms  bloomin'  on  de  grabes  ob  dem  I  lub. 


FROM    TENNESSEE. 


243 


Am  de  'possum  still  house-keepin'  'mong  de  grapes  ob  Bigby 

Creek? 
An'  young  mistis  —  do  she  kerry  still  de  grape-bloom  in  her 

cheek? 
Ken  you  heah  de  sheep-bell  tinkle,  tinkle,  on  de  blue-grass 

hill, 

While  de  water  jine  de  chorus  frum  de  ole  wheel  at  de  mill? 
Yes,  marster,  dat's  er  fac'  you  say, 

De  ole  man  he  am  free  — 
But  I'd  be  er  slave  ergin 

Fur  jes'  er  breaf  ob  Tennessee! 

O,  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin'  fur  er  home  in  Tennessee. 
Fur  de  cabin  dat  ole  marster  bilt  fur  Dinah  an'  fur  me, 
Whar  de  chillun  cum  an'  left  us  lak  de  dew-drap  leab  de 

grass  — 

All  withered  up  an'  yearnin'  fur  de  little  things  dat's  pas'. 
I  kno'  dey  dead  —  but  still  I  feel  ef  I'd  go  dar  onc't  mo', 
Mebbe  dey'd  cum  ergin  sum  day  an'  play  befo'  de  do', 
Mebbe  my  mammy'd  cum  ergin  her  little  boy  to  take 
An'  sing  fur  him  dat  lullerby  frum  which  he'd  never  wake. 
O,  mammy,  I'm  er  cummin', 

Sabe  dat  lullerby  fur  me  — 

Fur  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin' 

Fur  er  grabe  in  Tennessee. 


A  RAY  FROM  CALVARY. 

O  CHRISTMAS,  happy  Christmas,  in  the  days  that  bring 
their  cheer, 

One  thought  amid  the  centuries  grows  brighter  every  year: 
That  not  alone  for  man  was  made  the  sweetness  of  thy  birth, 
And  not  alone  for  him  was  decked  the  holly-wreathed  earth, 
But  all  that  on  Him  doth  depend,  like  Him  might  blessed  be, 
And  catch  the  reflex  of  that  ray  that  fell  from  Calvary. 


244 


SONGS    AND    STORIES 


THE  CHRIST-STAR  HAS  RISEN. 


T 


'WI  LIGHT  and  Christmas  Eve- 

Sky  bright  with  starry  weave, 
Moonlight  and  music  o'er  earth  and  in  air, 
Sweet  bell  and  swelling  note, 
Heart-hopes  that  rise  and  float 
Faith-winged  to  heaven  in  flash-lights  of  prayer. 

Sunrise  and  Christmas  morn, 

Love  lies  so  lowly  born  — 
Heaven  and  Human  in  meekness  have  met; 

Hope  —  tho'  the  light  be  low, 

Faith  —  through  the  blight  and  blow  — 
The  Christ-star  has  risen,  it  never  will  set! 


TENNESSEE. 
(A  centennial  poem.) 

SUN-shimmer'd  fields  of  dreaming  green, 
A  sky  blue-domed  in  azure  sheen, 
And  hill  on  hill  dipped  deep  between. 
And  with  soft  sighs  the  breezes  rise 
To  waft  cloud-kisses  to  the  skies. 

Nature  smiled,  and  dimpled  back 

The  Middle  Basin  in  her  track. 

She  laughed,  and  ling'ring  on  its  crest 

Her  echo  rolled  from  out  the  west. 

She  frowned,  and  'round  her  thoughtful  brow, 

'Rose  our  bold  peaks  of  liberty. 

'Rose,  and  wedded  with  the  sky  — 

For  Liberty  will  wed  no  less 

Than  this  sky-child  of  loveliness, 

With  eyes  of  stars  and  sunset  tress. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  245 

And  one — King's  Mountain  peak  in  name — 
Has  linked  his  wedding  day  to  fame — 
For  scorning  Self,  and  hoiden  Mirth, 
And  flesh-pot  Pride,  and  cringing  Earth, 
He  kissed  his  bride-queen  of  the  sky 
And  gave  to  Independence  birth. 

God  saw  the  picture,  that  'twas  good, 
And  so  on  heaven's  heights  He  stood 
And  through  the  bars  of  throbbing  stars 
Sent  men  whose  souls  were  souls  of  Mars. 

God  saw  the  picture,  that  'twas  fair, 
And  so,  from  out  of  heaven's  air, 
Through  dreamy  haze  of  nebulous  ways — 
(Souled  in  the  sweetness  of  their  lays 
And  crowned  in  the  halo  of  their  blaze) 
Sent  maids  to  wed  these  men  of  Mars. 

And  over  all,  from  Morning's  loom, 
He  cast  a  veil  of  blue  and  bloom, 
As  ancient  kings  a  cloth  of  gold 
Threw  o'er  the  master  works  of  old. 

When  star  weds  star,  the  stars  are  born, 
And  after  star-birth  comes  the  morn, 
The  morn  of  Men  and  Principle. 
And  so  men  came  of  giant  frame — 
Live-oaks  in  the  field  of  Fame — 
Monarchs  in  God's  forestry. 

(I) 

And  one  came  as  the  Hickory,  with  steel-knit,  stubborn  form, 
The  gatherer  of  strength  that's  won  by  wrestling  with  the 

storm, 
The  main-mast  of  that  sturdy  ship  that  first  flung  to  the  world 


246  SONGS    AND    STORIES 

The  heaven-reflected  glory  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  unfurled. 
He  came  and  smote,  and  from  the  throat  of  guns  of  Ten 
nessee, 
He  echoed  back  the  thunder-note  of  infant  Liberty. 

(2) 

And  one  grew  as  the  rough,  Red  Oak,  from  out  the  deep, 

rich  soil — 

The  strength  of  ages  garnered  in  the  nobleness  of  toil — 
He  stood  and  died  for  Liberty,  and  far  across  the  sea 
Tossed  back  the  new  world's  answer  to  a  new  Thermopylae. 

(3) 

And  one  was  like  the  Willow  in  his  grace  of  heart  and  mind, 
And  holds  the  list'ning  ear  of  fame  as  the  harpstring  holds 

the  wind. 

(4) 

And  one  was  like  the  stately  Pine,  his  name  an  evergreen 
Held  in  the  prow-beak  of  each  ship  that  sails  the  seas  be- 

(5) 

And  one  came  as  the  Cedar,  and  reared  his  lofty  crest 
To  gather  'neath  its  ample  boughs  an  empire  from  the  west. 

(6) 
And  thousands  stood  as  Cypresses,  when  the  axe  of  Fate  was 

nigh, 
And  in  their  moss  of  tatter'd  gray  with  proud  heads  in  the 

sky, 
Fell  in  the  fadeless  forest  of  Immortality. 

O,  children  of  such  Deeds  as  these, 
As  rivers  flow  to  make  the  seas, 
Great  spirits  make  great  destinies. 
O,  sons  of  sires,  these  deeds  adorn, 
As  true  as  sunlight  unto  morn, 
Is  deed  that  lives,  to  deed  unborn. 


FROM    TENNESSEE.  247 

O,  maids  of  mothers,  know  ye  then, 
As  purest  stream  from  deepest  glen, 
Great  mothers  only  rear  great  men. 
Hark,  now,  from  out  his  leafy  throne, 
What  sings  our  Mock-bird,  Mendelssohn: 

Tennessee,  Tennessee, 
All  our  song  goes  out  to  thee. 

From  our  eyries  where  the  eagles  breed  the  spirit  of  the  free 
To  the  cataract  that  catches  up  the  lay  of  liberty; 
From  our  vestal  hills  uplifting  emerald  offerings  to  the  sky, 
To  the  Basin  in  whose  bosom  heaven's  garnered  glories  lie. 
Singing,  singing,  singing,  as  the  wind  sings  to  the  sea, 
Clinging,  clinging,  clinging,  as  the  vine  clings  to  the  tree, 
Songs  of  hope  and  songs  of  sadness, 
Songs  of  home  and  songs  of  gladness, 
Songs  of  thee. 

Tennessee,  Tennessee, 
All  our  love  goes  out  to  thee. 
From  our  mountains  where  the  marble  dreams  of  beauty  yet 

to  be, 

To  the  mighty  marching  river  bearing  bounty  to  the  sea; 
From  our  Eastland  where  the  clover  blossom  mocks  the  pur 
ple  morn, 
To  the  West  where  cotton  banners  mimic  sunset  'mid  the 

corn. 

Giving,  giving,  giving,  as  the  blossom  gives  the  bee, 
Living,  living,  living,  as  should  ever  live  the  free, 
Love  of  truth  and  love  of  beauty, 
Love  of  God  and  love  of  duty, 
Love  of  thee. 

(i)  Jackson.     (2)   Crockett.     (3)  Haskell.     (4)   Matt  F. 
Maury.    (5)  James  K.  Polk.     (6)  Confederate  soldiers. 


CONTENTS. 


A  Cavalry  Drill  in  Old   Tennessee 4-2 

A  Harvest  Song 97 

A  Little  Cry  in  the  Night 178 

Alone 116 

A  Memory  122 

A  Morning  Ride 126 

A  Ray   From  Calvary 243 

Beauty 156 

Bre'r  Washington's  Arraignment 234 

By  the  Little  Big  Horn 56 

Christmas  Morn  192 

Clouds  131 

Dick 141 

Eulalee  123 

Fair  Times  in  Old  Tennessee 72 

First  Monday  in  Tennessee 62 

Gray  Gamma 108 

Hal  Pointer  at  Buffalo 197 

Hal  Pointer  on  Memorial  Day 199 

How  Old  Wash  Captured  a  Gun 228 

How  Old  Wash  Sold  the  Filly ,220 

How  Robert  J.   Broke  the  Record 194 

How  the  Bishop  Broke  the  Record 187 

Huntin'   o'  the  Quail 105 

Immortality 133 

It  Can  Not  Be 177 


Lcttie   138 

Life's  Christmas   140 

Little  Sam 132 

Longin'  fur  Tennessee 242 

Marjorie  123 

Miss  Kitty's  Fun'ral . .  .*. 75 

Mollie   232 

Morning 193 

Nora 172 

Ole  Mistis 14 

Our  Bob   172 

O  Voices  That  Long  Ago  Left  Me 233 

Reconciliation    227 

Sam  Davis  170 

Success 7 

Sunset  on  the  Tennessee 168 

Tennessee ; 244 

The  Basin  of  Tennessee 7 

The  Bells  of  Atlanta 161 

The  Blue  Grass  Plot 40 

The  Christ  Star  Has  Risen 244 

The  Church  of  the  Heart 117 

The  Evening  Star 220 

The  Faith   of  Old 71 

The  Flag  of  Green's  Brigade 53 

The  Hills 54 

The  Juliet  of  the  Grasses 164 

The  Lily  of   Fort   Custer 202 

The  Mule   Race  at  Ash  wood 127 

The  Music  of  the  Pines 218 

The  Old  Meadow  Spring 98 


The  Old  Plantation 226 

The  Pines  of  Monterey 183 

The  Rabbit  Trap 74 

The  Sleep  of  the  Flowers v 104 

The  Spelling  Match  at  Big  Sandy 179 

The  Summer  of  Long  Ago .' 13 

The  Tennesseean  to  the  Flag 216 

The  Tennessee  Girl  and  the.  Pacing  Mare 134 

The  Track  Around  the  Stove 198 

The  True  Singer 61 

The  Wolf  Hunt  on  Big  Bigby 99 

Thoroughbreds 156 

'Tis  But  a  Dream 179 

To  a  Blue  Jay.... 118 

To  a  Mocking  Bird  in  the  Pine  Top 58 

To  a  Morning  Glory 234 

To  an  American  Boy 184 

To  a  Sweet  Pea 41 

To  a  Wild  Rose  on  an  Indian  Grave 95 

To  Burns  218 

To  the  Spirit  of  May 107 

To  Whittier,  Dead 192 

Truth  in  Beauty 214 

Under  the   Pines   215 

Wearing  the  Gray   159 

When  de  Fat  am  on  de  Possum 130 

When  the  Colts  are  in  the  Ring 73 

Where  the  Glory  Lies 169 

Wonderful  Men 184 

Work  Through  It  All >. .  225 

Yesterday 120 


